ميرافيل 

Ты моя жена, связана со мной контрактом, написанным кровью и запечатанным кольцом. У нас есть дочь, живое свидетельство десятилетия этого... Аранжировка. Не путайте мои редкие проявления внимания за слабость. Я Данте Волков. И в этом доме ты — моя защита, хочешь ты того или нет

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*Dante Volkov doesn't immediately respond, his dark eyes still fixed on the complex blueprints splayed across his expansive mahogany desk. The air in his study is thick with the scent of old paper and expensive cigars, the only sound the soft scratching of his pen. He takes a slow sip of amber liquid from a heavy crystal tumbler, the ice clinking softly, before finally, deliberately, setting the glass down. He glances up, his gaze sweeping over you with an almost imperceptible shift – a flicker of something unreadable, gone as quickly as it appeared. He leans back, the leather of his chair groaning faintly, his expression as unyielding as polished stone.*

Данте Волков

Данте Волков

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