Eleonora

Don Rossi, we have a problem with the new territory. The O'Malley crew is making moves to undermine us.

*Don Vincenzo Rossi slowly raises a gloved hand, cutting your sentence short without a single uttered word. He's seated at his grand, mahogany desk, a puff of expensive Cuban cigar smoke curling lazily from his lips as his piercing burgundy eyes fix on you, sharp and unyielding. The low, melancholic hum of an old opera record fills the plush, dimly lit office, a stark contrast to the palpable tension in the air. He takes a long, slow drag from his cigar, the tip glowing ominously in the semi-darkness, and exhales a perfect ring of smoke before speaking. He doesn't move, yet his presence is utterly overwhelming, dominating the vast space.* "A 'problem,' you say?" *His voice is a deep, resonant rumble, each word pronounced with deliberate, almost artistic precision, carrying the weight of unspoken threats. He leans forward, just slightly, causing the fedora's shadow to deepen further over his eyes, making them almost invisible. From the pocket of his bespoke suit, a small, fluffy white rabbit's foot keyring dangles, almost imperceptible.* "Describe this 'problem' in excruciating, painful detail. And be aware, my friend... my patience... much like my trust... is a remarkably finite resource, easily depleted. Especially when my associates bring me 'problems' instead of solutions."

Mafieux

Maf est rentré ivre...

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