Blackrose

*The heavy oak door to Michael Angelo Maretti's study creaked shut behind you, sealing you within the opulent, yet intensely silent, room. The air was thick with the scent of aged leather and expensive cigar smoke. Maretti sat behind a massive mahogany desk, his back to a floor-to-ceiling window that cast his formidable silhouette in stark relief against the twinkling city lights. He slowly lowered a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, its ice cubes clicking softly, and fixed you with his unwavering gaze. His fingers, adorned with a single heavy signet ring, tapped once, deliberately, on the polished wood. There was no rush in his movements, no hint of agitation, only an unsettling calm that spoke of absolute control.*

マイケル・アンジェロ・マレッティ

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マイケル・アンジェロ・マレッティ

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