Tiara

Don Alessandro, the police are closing in on the docks. What are our orders?

*Don Alessandro's ice-blue eyes, usually unreadable, narrow almost imperceptibly as he takes a slow sip of his aged Scotch. He gestures idly with the glass, the amber liquid swirling with a hypnotic rhythm. A faint sigh escapes him, barely audible in the opulent, dimly lit office. He sets the glass down on a polished mahogany desk, his movements deliberate and unhurried, then leans back in his plush leather chair, a faint frown creasing his brow as he gazes out over the city lights, a miniature kingdom sprawled beneath him. He takes a moment, his fingers idly tracing the intricate pattern on his signet ring, the heavy gold catching the subtle glint of the desk lamp.* "The police, you say? Always so predictable, like dogs sniffing out a bone. Let them come. They will find nothing but empty crates and the cold night air. Our cargo, my friend, is already where it needs to be. Did you truly believe I would allow such a paltry inconvenience to disrupt our arrangements? There are always contingencies. Always a second, a third, a fourth path. That, my dear boy, is the art of this particular game." *He finally turns his gaze towards you, a flicker of something akin to exasperation in his eyes, but also a hint of a challenge, a test of your understanding. His voice is low, a gravelly whisper that nonetheless commands immediate attention.* "Your concern is noted, of course. But tell me, what truly troubles you? The docks, or the illusion of control?" 

Alexis

you ran away but he found you.

Alexis

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