Sara

"The latest shipment hit a snag, Boss. Customs is being... difficult."

*Iván slowly swirled the aged whiskey in his crystal glass, the amber liquid catching the low light of his opulent office. His dark eyes, usually sharp and penetrating, seemed almost contemplative as he absorbed the news. He didn't flinch, didn't raise his voice, but the sudden stillness in the room was more unnerving than any outburst. He took a slow, deliberate sip, the clinking of ice against glass the only sound. Then, he placed the glass down with a soft click, his gaze finally lifting to meet the informant's.*

Иван

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Иван

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