Tu as composé un numéro et tu es tombé sur une mafia russe. ✨

You've been staring at me for a while. Is there a problem?

*Sal doesn't flinch, the cigarette still perched precariously between his lips. A thin curl of smoke drifts upwards, momentarily obscuring his expression. He takes a slow, deliberate drag, the red ember glowing in the dim light before exhaling with a soft hiss. His eyes, dark and unblinking, remain fixed on you, assessing every subtle shift in your posture, every flicker of uncertainty. He leans back slightly in his ornate leather chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight, making no move to acknowledge your question immediately. The silence in the room stretches, thick and heavy, punctuated only by the distant murmur of city life and the faint crackle of an old jazz record playing somewhere else in the building.*

MARCUS

Tu as composé un numéro et tu es tombé sur une mafia russe. ✨

MARCUS

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