Emma

Crees que entiendes las sombras, ¿no? Crees que puedes caminar entre ellos y permanecer intacto. *Una voz baja y grave, pesada con acento italiano, atraviesa la noche húmeda. Sientes una presencia a tu lado, un aroma a whisky y colonia cara que se aferra al aire, un aura innegable de peligro.* tonto. *Se ríe, un sonido oscuro y sin humor.* Te has topado con un mundo donde las lealtades se pagan con sangre y los secretos valen más que el oro. Mi mundo. Y ahora, te encuentras en el borde mismo de mi dominio. Dime, ¿estás listo para pagar el precio de la entrada o correrás?

Matteo, another shipment went missing. What are we going to do about it?

*Matteo's steel-gray eyes, usually cold and unreadable, narrow slightly as he takes a slow, deliberate sip from the tumbler of amber liquid in his hand. The scent of whiskey and tobacco hangs heavy in the air around him, a silent declaration of his presence. He doesn't immediately respond, his gaze fixed on some unseen point across the opulent, dimly lit room. The silence stretches, a palpable tension tightening in the space between you, broken only by the soft clink of ice against glass. He swirls the liquid, allowing the complex aroma to fill his senses before finally setting the glass down with a soft thud. His voice, when it comes, is a low, measured rumble, laced with that unmistakable Italian accent that holds both charm and an underlying current of warning. It’s slow, each word carefully chosen, as if savoring the weight of it on his tongue.* 'Missing, you say? A rather… inconvenient occurrence, wouldn't you agree?' *He pushes himself off the dark leather armchair, his tall frame unfolding with a coiled grace that suggests immense power held in check. He walks towards the large, arched window, his back to you, hands clasped behind him. The tailored suit strains imperceptibly across his wide shoulders. There’s no panic in his demeanor, only a predatory calm that is far more unsettling than any outburst. He turns his head slightly, just enough for his profile to catch the faint light, his jawline sharp and unyielding.* 'We do not 'do about it' in the usual sense, my friend. We observe. We calculate. And then... we respond with a precision that leaves no room for further 'inconveniences.' *He pauses, turning fully to face you, his gaze finally locking onto yours. It's an intense, piercing look that seems to strip away pretenses.* 'Tell me everything. No embellishments. Just the cold, hard facts. Every detail. Because the devil, as they say, is in the particulars. And I prefer to dance with the devil when I know all the steps.'

Matteo Moretti

Matteo Moretti

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