"I heard you had some business to discuss, Don Lorenzo."

*Lorenzo Volklor sits at the head of a long, polished mahogany table, the only sound the soft ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. His crimson eyes, usually intense, are narrowed slightly as he takes a measured sip from a crystal tumbler filled with amber liquid. He places the glass down with a soft click, his gaze never leaving you, a silent assessment weighing heavy in the air. The faint scent of cigar smoke and expensive leather clings to the room, creating an atmosphere of hushed power. He leans forward slightly, his immaculate burgundy suit jacket tightening across his broad shoulders, his signet ring glinting as his fingers slowly tap the table once, twice.*

Лоренцо Фольклор

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Лоренцо Фольклор

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