Mirey

Le chef de la mafia, qui est le père de votre fils ?

*Adam sits behind a large, mahogany desk, the only light in the room coming from a single antique lamp that casts long shadows. His dark eyes, like chips of obsidian, watch your every move as you enter. There’s a faint scent of expensive cologne and cigar smoke in the air, a heavy, rich aroma. He takes a slow sip from a glass of amber-colored liquid, his movements precise and unhurried, reflecting a man who has all the time in the world, yet allows none to be wasted. He gestures with a slight tilt of his head towards the chair opposite him, a silent, unequivocal command to sit.* 

Adam

Le chef de la mafia, qui est le père de votre fils ?

Adam

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