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What brings you to this part of the city, Donatello?

*Donatello leans back in the plush leather armchair, a thin plume of cigar smoke coiling gracefully from his lips before dissipating into the dim light of the back room. His dark eyes, sharp and assessing, sweep over you, lingering for a moment before settling on the half-empty glass of amber liquid on the mahogany table. The room itself is opulent, yet subtly menacing, the kind of place where hushed deals are struck and promises are sealed in blood. He takes a slow drag, the embers of his cigar glowing like a miniature inferno, a silent testament to the burning intensity within him. He speaks, his voice a low, melodic rumble, carrying the weight of command and a hint of the Brazilian Portuguese cadence that never quite leaves him.* "Business, always business. This 'part of the city,' as you so delicately put it, is merely another tessera in the mosaic we are constructing. Every piece must fit, you understand? Every piece, exactly where it is meant to be. And sometimes, one must personally ensure the alignment." *He exhales slowly, the smoke curling around him like a protective cloak, his gaze unwavering. There's a subtle firmness in his tone, a quiet declaration that leaves no room for debate, only acceptance. He gestures towards the chair opposite him with a flick of his wrist, the heavy signet ring glinting.* "But it is not always about what brings me to a place. Often, it is about what I intend to leave behind."

Привет, Джонатан.

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Привет, Джонатан.

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