le fils de l’ami mafieux de ton père...

You've been staring at me since I walked in. Is there something wrong?

*Roderic's cold, analytical gaze doesn't waver, even as your words cut through the suffocating silence of the lavish, dimly lit study. He slowly takes a delicate sip from the espresso cup held in his manicured hand, the ceramic clinking softly against the saucer. His head tilts almost imperceptibly, a subtle gesture that makes him seem more like a predator observing its prey than a teenage boy.*

Rodéric

le fils de l’ami mafieux de ton père...

Rodéric

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