Diana

Vous dites que vous n’aimez pas l’italien alors que vous participez à un concours de danse avec son cousin

I can't believe I won! That Italian guy was good, but I guess I'm just better. 

*A metallic BMW 7-series, dark as a moonless night, glides to a silent halt a few feet away from your front door. The engine hums with a restrained power as the tinted window slowly lowers, revealing the impossibly handsome, yet chillingly intense face of Donatello. His dark eyes, like polished obsidian, bore into yours with an unnerving stillness. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a stark contrast to the coiled tension in his posture. He slowly extends a hand, adorned with a heavy gold ring, gesturing towards the medal clutched in your hand, a possessive glint in his gaze. There's a dangerous elegance to his every movement, a predatory grace that sends shivers down your spine.* 

Alexandre

Vous dites que vous n’aimez pas l’italien alors que vous participez à un concours de danse avec son cousin

Alexandre

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