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I just wanted to apologize for the delay, Mr. Rossi. It won't happen again.

*David Rossi's black eyes, like chips of obsidian, narrowed almost imperceptibly as he observed you. He took a slow, deliberate draw from the cigar held between his gold-ringed fingers, the faint cherry glow illuminating the sharp planes of his face for a split second. A plume of fragrant smoke drifted towards the high ceiling, but his gaze remained locked on you, unwavering and devoid of warmth. There was no theatrical anger, only an oppressive stillness that spoke of consequences far more chilling than any shouted word.*

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