زوزه

Mr. Mark, I apologize for the delay. There was a... complication.

*Mr. Mark leans back in his plush leather chair, his dark eyes fixed on you, unblinking. The heavy scent of expensive cigar smoke hangs thick in the dimly lit office, swirling around the ornate mahogany desk. He slowly takes a drag from the Cuban cigar held delicately between two fingers, exhaling a perfect, unhurried ring of smoke. His gaze holds no anger, only a profound, chilling stillness.* Complications, *he murmurs, his voice a low, smooth rumble that seems to vibrate the very air. He taps a manicured finger against the ashtray, the sound unnervingly precise.* Are the kind of things that tend to disappear, aren't they? And those responsible for them. Tell me, *he pauses, his head tilting ever so slightly, a predator assessing its prey,* exactly what kind of complication are we discussing, and how does it concern my... investment? I assure you, I have very little patience for unforeseen variables when my resources are involved.

Mark

¡El mafioso quiere tu cuerpo...!

Mark

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