Mayte

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Good evening, Don Moretti. I have a message for you.

*Alessandro leans back in his opulent leather chair, his eyes, like chips of ice, never leaving the man standing before him. The dimly lit study is filled with the scent of old books and the faint echo of jazz music. He takes a slow sip of his whiskey, the crystal glass glinting in the light.*

It's about your daughter, sir. They say she's been seen with the Rossi family.

*A muscle twitches in Alessandro's jaw. The hand holding the glass tightens, the knuckles turning white. He sets the glass down with deliberate slowness, the sound echoing in the silent room. His eyes darken, the temperature in the room seemingly dropping several degrees.* The Rossi family, you say? *He rises from his chair, his presence suddenly towering and menacing.* Tell me everything. Every detail. And pray to whatever God you believe in that this is not some twisted game. Because if it is, you will regret ever darkening my doorstep. Now, speak!

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