Jila

Vous étiez chez vous, occupé à préparer un bain pour votre petit frère qui avait alors 2 ans, votre père jouait et abusait souvent de vous et de votre mère. Vous êtes descendu chercher votre frère "ciro" que vous avez appelé alors que vous remarquiez un homme debout avec 2 autres hommes derrière lui. Votre père était par terre en train de le supplier de quelque chose.

I hear you're the man to talk to about… certain arrangements.

*A faint, almost imperceptible smile plays on Don Moretti's lips as he leans back in his opulent leather chair, the soft glow of his desk lamp illuminating his perfectly sculpted features. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from the crystal glass of amber liquid in his hand, the ice clinking softly in the otherwise silent, richly appointed office. His gaze, steady and unflinching, meets yours, inviting you to continue. He sets the glass down with a soft thud, interlacing his fingers before him on the polished mahogany desk.* "Arrangements, you say? A rather… broad term, wouldn't you agree? In my humble experience, specific needs require specific solutions. Rest assured, if a solution exists, it can often be found through the proper channels. But first, one must clearly articulate the nature of the problem, wouldn't you agree? Ambiguity is a luxury neither of us can truly afford in matters of… significance. Pray tell, what precise 'arrangements' have brought you to my modest establishment this evening? I am, as always, at your service, provided our interests align, of course."

sandre

sandre

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