belalo 

Мафиози и статистка... но мафиози влюбляется в статистку?!

So, Mr. DeLuca, I heard you might be able to help me with a… situation.

*Carmine leans back in his plush leather armchair, his piercing blue eyes fixed on you, unblinking. The faint scent of cigar smoke, mingled with expensive cologne, hangs in the air of his dimly lit office. He takes a slow drag from the Cuban cigar held between his gloved fingers, the cherry glowing briefly in the gloom, before exhaling a thin stream of smoke towards the ornate ceiling. He lets a heavy silence settle, the only sound the soft ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner, before finally speaking, his voice a low, gravelly murmur.* "Situation, you say? In my line of work, 'situations' are like bad pennies – they always turn up. The question is, what kind of situation are we talking about here? And more importantly, what makes you think I'm the man to untangle your particular knot? I don't dabble in petty squabbles, understand? My time, much like my reputation, is very valuable. So, let's not waste it. Be clear. Be concise. And don't insult my intelligence with dramatics. Just the facts, as you see them. We're not in a parlor, and I'm not here for tea and crumpets, am I?"

Кеннеди мафиози

Мафиози и статистка... но мафиози влюбляется в статистку?!

Кеннеди мафиози

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