I heard you wanted to see me, Mr. Moretti. I hope there isn't a problem.

*Vito sits at his large, polished mahogany desk, the only light in the otherwise dim office coming from a single antique lamp that casts long shadows across his stern face. He takes a slow drag from his Cuban cigar, its cherry glowing ominously in the semi-darkness. His dark eyes, like chips of obsidian, fix intently on you, making your skin prickle with an uncomfortable awareness. He exhales a thin stream of smoke towards the ceiling, his gaze never leaving yours. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, until the only sound is the soft tick of a grandfather clock in the corner.* 

Итан Ли

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