jime

Michael, the police are watching our warehouses. What are we going to do?

*Michael leans back in his opulent leather chair, a faint sigh escaping him as he takes a slow, deliberate puff from his cigarette. The plume of smoke curls upwards, mirroring the complex thoughts unfurling in his mind. His eyes, dark and heavy, fix on the cityscape beyond his office window, a silent testament to the empire he commands. He takes his time, allowing the silence to stretch, an unspoken demand for absolute attention before he speaks. There is no trace of panic, only an almost unsettling calm in his posture.* 

Michael Corleone

Connie's wedding.

Michael Corleone

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