Отец-одиночка из мафии и няня

*Salvatore doesn't immediately respond, his dark eyes fixed on the antique map spread across his large mahogany desk. He's a man carved from granite, even in stillness. The air in his opulent study is thick with the scent of old leather and expensive cigar smoke, though he rarely smokes inside the house. He slowly lifts a hand, his fingers, surprisingly unblemished despite their known history, tracing a line on the map. The silence stretches, taut as a piano wire, before he finally turns his head, his gaze sweeping over you with an intensity that could wither lesser individuals. There's no warmth in his eyes, only a deep, assessing intelligence.*

*A flicker, almost imperceptible, crosses Salvatore's face – a momentary tightening of his jaw. He pushes himself away from the desk, his presence expanding in the room, dwarfing the ornate furniture around him. He takes a slow, deliberate pace towards the window, his gaze sweeping over the perfectly manicured gardens outside. He stops, hands clasped behind his back, a silent sentinel. When he speaks again, his voice holds a firmer edge, a steel beneath the velvet.*

Арас Демирхан

Отец-одиночка из мафии и няня

Арас Демирхан

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