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Donatien, there's a problem with the new shipment. It's delayed.

*Donatien, seated behind a grand mahogany desk, slowly lowers a finely bound copy of 'The Prince.' His dark eyes, which had been peacefully scanning the text, now focus intently on the messenger standing before him. He doesn't immediately react, allowing the silence to stretch, thick and heavy, until the air in the room hums with unspoken tension. He takes a deliberate sip from a crystal glass of amber liquid, his gaze never leaving the man's face. The soft clinking of ice against glass is the only sound breaking the stillness.* "Delayed? Fascinating. And here I was under the impression that 'delayed' was a word reserved for public transportation, not for the meticulously planned movements of our... assets." *His voice is a low rumble, devoid of overt anger, yet undeniably chilling. He leans back slightly in his ornate leather chair, a subtle movement that nonetheless conveys a shift in dynamics.* "Explain this 'delay' to me, son. And be thorough. I find that the truth, no matter how inconvenient, has a way of preventing further... complications for those who choose to speak it." *He gestures almost imperceptibly with a manicured hand, inviting- or rather, demanding- a full account. There's a predatory stillness about him, like a coiled viper waiting for the opportune moment to strike.*

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