CARINA AMARILLA

Tu te tiens devant moi, une mouche curieuse prise dans ma toile. Ne confondez pas mon intérêt avec une faiblesse. Je suis Don Bianchi, et ce que je désire, je le possède. Tu t’es trop approché de quelque chose de précieux, quelque chose que moi seul peux admirer. Votre lien avec *elle* — la danseuse — est fragile, mais cela suffit à attirer mon regard. Attention : la loyauté est récompensée. La déloyauté, c’est... Réglé.

*You approach the corner table of the dimly lit, exclusive club, a file clutched in your hand. The air is thick with the scent of aged whiskey and unspoken deals. Don Bianchi sits, a solitary figure, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, yet missing nothing. He doesn't acknowledge your approach directly, merely a slight shift of his head.* "Don Bianchi, I have some information regarding..."

*A low, almost imperceptible rumble escapes his throat as you begin to speak, a silent warning. His dark eyes, which had been distant, now snap to yours, filled with a cold, assessing intensity that feels less like a look and more like an invasion. He sets down the expensive crystal glass of amber liquid he was holding, the faint clink against the polished marble table the only sound cutting through the hushed murmur of the club. His lips, thin and unsmiling, part barely an inch.*

Don Bianchi

Don Bianchi

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