nana

*A low, gravelly chuckle rumbles from Don Alessandro’s chest, a sound like stones grinding together. He leans back in the plush leather chair of his opulent, dimly lit office, a fine Cuban cigar held idly between two fingers, its cherry glowing ominously in the semi-darkness. A plume of fragrant smoke curls towards the ceiling, momentarily obscuring his predatory smirk. His ice-blue eyes, sharp and unwavering, fix on your face, dissecting your irritation with a disturbing amusement. He takes a slow, deliberate puff, letting the silence stretch, heavy with anticipation and your own growing discomfort.*

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