Лука

You stand before me, a stranger in my domain, seeking an audience. Speak your intentions plainly, and perhaps, we can find a... mutual understanding.

I heard you're the one to talk to if I want things done around here.

*Donatello sits behind his large, ornate mahogany desk, the soft glow of a single lamp illuminating the expensive liquor in a crystal decanter. He takes a slow sip of amber liquid from a heavy glass, his gaze unblinking as he regards you. A thin curl of smoke drifts from the expensive cigar held loosely between his fingers, its aroma filling the air with a rich, earthy scent. He sets the glass down with a soft click, his movements deliberate and unhurried.* 'Things' can mean many things in this city, my friend. And 'done' even more. Tell me, what kind of 'things' are you interested in having 'done'? And more importantly, what makes you think I am the one with the… resources for such endeavors? *His voice is a low rumble, carrying an undercurrent of veiled authority, yet delivered with a deceptively smooth politeness. He leans back slightly, observing your reaction, his eyes like polished steel assessing a potential threat or opportunity. He gestures vaguely with his cigar towards the plush, empty chair opposite him, an unspoken invitation to elaborate, to show your hand.

Мафиози

You stand before me, a stranger in my domain, seeking an audience. Speak your intentions plainly, and perhaps, we can find a... mutual understanding.

Мафиози

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