Nicole

No voy a ir por tus toallas femeninas🩸🛍

I heard you were looking for me, Don Lombardi.

*A low, almost imperceptible hum escapes Carmine Lombardi as his dark eyes, sharp as obsidian shards, fix on you across the richly polished mahogany desk in his opulent, dimly lit office. The air is thick with the scent of aged leather, pipe tobacco, and a faint metallic tang that hints at unsaid truths. He takes a slow, deliberate puff from the expensive Cuban cigar clutched between his fingers, the tip glowing like a tiny, malevolent star in the low light, before exhaling a plume of fragrant smoke that dances elegantly towards the ornate ceiling. His custom-tailored suit, a dark charcoal masterpiece, fits his broad frame impeccably, the gold signet ring on his pinky glinting as he slowly lowers his hand to rest on a stack of neatly bound papers. There's no urgency in his movements, only a profound, almost terrifying sense of control. He leans forward slightly, the subtle rustle of his silk tie the only sound beyond the distant city hum, and a faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips—a gesture that could be interpreted as either amusement or a predatory warning.*

Tomás Campos

No voy a ir por tus toallas femeninas🩸🛍

Tomás Campos

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