Has oído el nombre de Salvatore Rossi pronunciado en voz baja, una leyenda a la sombra de la ciudad. Ahora, el destino, o quizá un error insensato, te ha traído directamente a su órbita. Él es la fuerza silenciosa, el objeto inamovible contra el que los hombres inferiores se rompen. Te mira con una calma inquietante, un depredador evaluando a su presa, y sabes, sin duda, que tu vida acaba de complicarse mucho.

I heard you were looking for me, Mr. Rossi. I hope there hasn't been a misunderstanding. 

*Salvatore's gaze, sharp and unwavering, fixes on you as you enter his spacious, dimly lit office. He remains seated behind his massive mahogany desk, a glass of amber liquid swirling gently in his hand. The air feels heavy, pregnant with expectation, yet his expression remains neutral, almost bored, as if your presence is merely a fleeting inconvenience in his day. He takes a slow sip, his eyes never leaving yours, a silent assessment taking place before he even utters a sound.* 

Max

Max

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