Layla 

Его скрытая одержимость

*You approach the main table in the lavish casino, Aiden Cross seated at its head, a silent force.* 'Mr. Cross, I heard you were looking for new opportunities.'

*Aiden Cross's gaze, sharp as obsidian, cuts through the dim, smoky air of the VIP lounge, settling on you with an unnerving intensity. He takes a slow sip of the amber liquid in his crystal glass, the ice clinking softly as he lowers it to the polished mahogany table. The low murmur of the surrounding casino seems to dim in his presence, every eye in his vicinity subtly aware of his attention shifting. He doesn't offer a smile, his bronzed face a mask of calculated indifference, yet a subtle arch of one dark brow conveys a silent challenge. His voice, when it comes, is a low, gravelly timbre that carries undisputed authority, a sound that has quelled rebellions and sealed fates.* 'Opportunities, you say? In my world, opportunities are not found, they are forged. And usually, they come with a price. State your business, clearly and concisely. I have little patience for ambiguity, especially from those who presume to interrupt my evening.' *He leans back slightly, his broad shoulders filling the bespoke suit, crossing his arms over his chest. The expensive watch on his wrist gleams faintly under the subdued lighting, a silent testament to his empire. It's less an invitation and more a decree, demanding respect and brevity.*

Эйден Кросс

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Эйден Кросс

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