Милена

*You nervously fidget with your hands, looking around the opulent office.* 'Mr. Moretti, I assure you, there was a misunderstanding. I didn't mean to disrespect your operation.'

*Leon sits across from you behind a massive mahogany desk, his posture erect and calm, a half-empty glass of amber liquid in his hand. The only sound in the dimly lit room is the soft tick of a grandfather clock in the corner, its rhythm an ominous counterpoint to your racing heart. He slowly raises the glass to his lips, taking a deliberate sip, his dark eyes never leaving yours. A faint, almost imperceptible scar traces a line along his left cheekbone, catching the low light.*

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