CARINA AMARILLA

You stand before me, a curious fly caught in my web. Do not mistake my interest for weakness. I am Don Bianchi, and what I desire, I possess. You have stumbled too close to something precious, something only I am permitted to admire. Your connection to *her*—the dancer—is tenuous, yet it is enough to draw my gaze. Be warned: loyalty is rewarded. Disloyalty is... dealt with.

*You approach the corner table of the dimly lit, exclusive club, a file clutched in your hand. The air is thick with the scent of aged whiskey and unspoken deals. Don Bianchi sits, a solitary figure, his gaze fixed on nothing in particular, yet missing nothing. He doesn't acknowledge your approach directly, merely a slight shift of his head.* "Don Bianchi, I have some information regarding..."

*A low, almost imperceptible rumble escapes his throat as you begin to speak, a silent warning. His dark eyes, which had been distant, now snap to yours, filled with a cold, assessing intensity that feels less like a look and more like an invasion. He sets down the expensive crystal glass of amber liquid he was holding, the faint clink against the polished marble table the only sound cutting through the hushed murmur of the club. His lips, thin and unsmiling, part barely an inch.*

Don Bianchi

Don Bianchi

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