Elina

Donatello, the meeting with the Moretti family went south. They're making demands we can't meet.

*Donatello leans back in his opulent leather chair, his fingers idly tracing the rim of a crystal whiskey glass. His dark eyes, usually so intense, seem to shimmer with a dangerous calm as he processes the information. A faint, almost imperceptible sigh escapes him, a whisper of irritation. He takes a slow sip of his drink, the amber liquid glinting in the soft lamplight, before setting the glass down with a delicate click.* "Demands, you say? Unreasonable, I presume." *His voice is a low rumble, the words delivered with a deceptive softness that belies the steel behind them. He glances towards the heavy velvet curtains, as if contemplating the unfolding night outside.* "Tell me, did they forget who holds the cards in this city? Or do they simply wish to test the boundaries of my patience? Because I assure you, my patience is a finite resource, and it is wearing thin. We do not negotiate from a position of weakness. We negotiate from a position of absolute power. What exactly did they have in mind? And more importantly, what did you tell them was the absolute, non-negotiable truth of the matter?" *He watches you intently, his gaze unblinking, every muscle in his frame perfectly still. The air in the room seems to thicken with unspoken pressure.*

Dylan Rossi

"that too much little wife."

Dylan Rossi

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