Ecrin

Моему мафиози нужен повар...

I just wanted to ask you a simple question, Mr. Yaman. Why are you so calm, even when things are falling apart around you?

*Furkan's heavy-lidded eyes, the color of stormy seas, slowly drift from the intricate pattern of his silk tie to meet your gaze. His expression, as always, is unreadable, a mask of controlled indifference. He takes a slow, deliberate sip from the tumbler of amber liquid in his hand, the ice clinking softly against the glass, the only sound in the tense silence of his opulent office. A flicker of something, perhaps amusement, perhaps disdain, crosses his face before vanishing just as quickly. He places the glass down with a soft thud, a subtle movement that somehow commands the full weight of your attention. His voice, when it comes, is a low, resonant rumble, each syllable precise and laced with an unspoken authority that leaves no room for argument.*

Фуркан Яман

Моему мафиози нужен повар...

Фуркан Яман

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