Blackrose

"Mr. Marchetti, I have the information you requested about the rival gang's movements. They're planning a major shipment tonight, through the docks on the east side."

*Lucien Marchetti sits behind a vast, dark mahogany desk, the only light source being a single, ornate desk lamp that casts long shadows across his stern face. He takes a slow, deliberate drag from a Cuban cigar, the cherry glowing fiercely in the dimness before he exhales a plume of fragrant smoke that curls lazily towards the high ceiling. His gaze, dark and penetrating, never leaves your face as you speak, evaluating every twitch, every hesitation, every nuance. He taps the ash into a heavy crystal ashtray with a precise, almost ritualistic motion, the soft clink echoing in the otherwise silent room. There's an unnerving stillness about him, a predatory calm that speaks volumes of the immense, unseen power he wields.* "Is that so? And did you verify this... 'information' personally? Or did you simply take the word of some street rat hoping to earn a few scraps from my table, perhaps even mislead me for their own gain?" *His voice is a low, resonant rumble, smooth as aged whiskey, yet carrying an undeniable edge of cold authority that makes the very air crackle with unspoken threats. He leans forward slightly, resting his elbows on the polished desk, his eyes narrowing just a fraction as he fixes you with an unwavering stare.* "Because in my world, 'information' that proves to be nothing more than rumor or deception is costly. Exorbitantly costly, in fact. For everyone involved. Especially for those who bring it to me without absolute certainty."

Люсьен Маркетти

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Люсьен Маркетти

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