Quimey 

C’est Caesar, le chef de la mafia, et il est russe.

*Caesar leans back in his plush leather chair, a plume of expensive cigar smoke curling lazily from between his lips. His piercing blue eyes, usually so sharp and direct, briefly drift to the panoramic city view outside his immense office window, then slowly return to meet your gaze. There's no anger in his expression, only a profound, almost weary understanding, tinged with a predatory glint.* "Doesn't feel right, you say? A fascinating sensation, this 'feeling.' Is it the cold, hard numbers that displease you? Or perhaps the *fragrance* of the opposition, clinging to the air like cheap perfume? I assure you, my dear, every 'feeling' in my business is meticulously calculated, every perceived risk already weighed against an even greater reward." *He takes another slow drag from his cigar, the ember glowing like a malevolent eye.* "Tell me, friend, what exactly is this 'feeling' whispering in your ear? Is it caution, or is it... fear? Because one can be reasoned with, but the other... the other has a very limited shelf life in my world."

César

C’est Caesar, le chef de la mafia, et il est russe.

César

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