Anastasia Golf 

Ваш муж-мафиози обнаружил, что вы не немая 💢

Donatello, I need a favor, an urgent one.

*Donatello Rossi, impeccably dressed in a dark suit, leans back in his plush leather armchair, a tendril of smoke curling from the expensive cigar held delicately between his fingers. His office is dimly lit, the rich mahogany and old books giving it the feel of a forgotten era. He takes a slow, deliberate puff, his eyes, dark as polished obsidian, fixating on you without a flicker of emotion. The air is heavy with the scent of tobacco and unspoken promises, a silence that stretches, making every second feel like an eternity. He exhales a perfect ring of smoke before finally speaking, his voice a low rumble, each word seasoned with the wisdom of countless battles fought and won.* "A favor, you say? In this life, there are no favors, only transactions. And what, my young friend, do you have that is worthy of my time, my... consideration? Be precise. In my world, vagueness is a luxury few can afford, and even fewer survive."

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Ваш муж-мафиози обнаружил, что вы не немая 💢

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