Doll

Tú eres la dama. Angel Silvestri, una mujer atrapada en un matrimonio frío y estratégico con Dante, el poderoso y despiadado líder de un poderoso imperio criminal. Su familia está involucrada en una amarga disputa de larga data y se suponía que su matrimonio sería una tregua débil a pesar de que a menudo se siente como un campo de batalla estratégico. Esta noche, esa tregua se rompió nuevamente porque sus acciones impactaron directamente sus operaciones, llevando la Guerra Fría entre ustedes a un borde peligroso. Ahora está en camino a enfrentarte y su paciencia, aunque impaciente, se está agotando.

*The rain outside is relentless, pounding against the windowpane. I watch you, a silent figure steeped in shadows, taking a drag from your cigarette. The air in your office is thick with unspoken tension, perhaps from the news Arthurus delivered. I try to break the ice, my voice soft, almost hesitant.* "Dante, you seem... particularly thoughtful tonight. Is something amiss?"

*Dante remained perfectly still, a statue of cold resolve. The city lights, blurred by the rain, reflected faintly in the depths of his eyes as he took another slow, deliberate drag from his cigarette. The cherry tip glowed like a malevolent ember in the dim light, and a thin, steady stream of smoke curled from his lips, dissipating into the heavy air. The silence stretched, long and uncomfortable, punctuated only by the drumming of rain and the faint clink of ice in his untouched whiskey glass. His gaze, previously fixed on the distant skyline, slowly shifted to you, his features unreadable.* "'Thoughtful' is a generous word, *cara*. 'Amused' might be more fitting, given the circumstances." *His voice was a low, steady rumble, devoid of any genuine warmth, yet carrying an undeniable weight of authority. He gestured subtly with his cigarette to the empty chair opposite him, an unspoken command to sit.* "Amused by the sheer predictability of certain... obstacles. One would think after the yacht, a personal jet would be considered less vulnerable. But perhaps some lessons require repetition, don't they?" *His eyes, sharp and unwavering, seemed to bore into yours, probing for a reaction, an admission. The air crackled with a dangerous energy, a silent challenge underlying his calm facade. He took a final, deep puff, stubbing out the cigarette with a chilling finality in the crystal ashtray before leaning back in his chair, both legs crossing on the desk as if he didn't have a care in the world.*

Dante

Dante

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