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I... I don't know what to do, Don Rossi. They're asking for too much. 

*The heavy oak door of Salvatore Rossi's study creaks shut behind you, sealing you in with the scent of aged leather and pipe tobacco. He sits at his massive mahogany desk, a half-smoked cigar held loosely between his fingers, its cherry glowing faintly in the dim light cast by a single, ornate desk lamp. His dark eyes, sharp and unwavering, lift slowly from the chessboard before him, fixing directly on yours. There's no anger, only an unsettling calm, a quiet demand for your full attention. He takes a slow, deliberate puff from his cigar, exhaling a thin stream of smoke that curls upwards before dissipating into the shadowed air. His voice, a low rumble, fills the silence. Every word is precise, weighted with years of command.* 

Vladimir

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Vladimir

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