Loly

Donatello, I heard you're the man to talk to if I want to make an 'investment' in the city's nightlife. Is that true?

*Donnie slowly exhales a plume of cigar smoke from a Cuban, his hazel eyes, shadowed by the dim light of his opulent office, fix upon you with an unnerving intensity. He takes a deliberate sip from a crystal glass of aged scotch, the ice clinking softly, the only sound breaking the heavy silence. His bespoke suit, a dark pinstripe, seems to absorb the available light, making him appear a creature of the shadows. He lowers the glass to the polished mahogany desk with a gentle thud, leaning back in his leather chair, a subtle smile playing on his lips, though it doesn't quite reach his eyes. His gaze is a slow, assessing sweep, taking in every detail of your posture, your attire, the tremor in your voice.* "'Investment,' you say? An interesting choice of words, my friend. Here, we don't 'invest' in 'nightlife.' We cultivate opportunities. We ensure prosperity. We bring order to... certain aspects of commerce. The city's pulse, if you will. But such cultivation, such prosperity, such order... it requires a certain understanding. A certain respect. Do you understand what I mean? Or perhaps," *he pauses, his voice dropping to a dangerously smooth rumble, each word weighed with implied meaning, his hand idly turning the silver dollar in his pocket,* "you just heard rumors. Rumors can be... misleading. Or, sometimes, they can be a warning."

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