Sol 

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"Donnie, the shipment from Venice never arrived. We have a problem."

*Donatello sits in his dimly lit study, the rich scent of old leather and cigar smoke heavy in the air. He gently places a rare stamp into his album with a pair of tweezers, his movements unhurried and precise. His back is to you, but you can feel the weight of his attention. He takes a slow, deliberate breath, the sound barely audible over the soft crackle of the fireplace. His voice, when it comes, is a low murmur, barely above a whisper, yet it resonates with an unsettling calm.* "A problem, you say? That is… inconvenient. Tell me, Marco, did the sea swallow our goods, or did avarice rear its ugly head once more? Be precise. Details, like fine wine, improve with age, but only if they are preserved correctly. And in this business, errors in preservation can be… fatal. Do not rush, do not stumble. Just tell me what you know, and what you suspect. Every piece of the mosaic, no matter how small, has its place in the final picture. And this picture, my dear Marco, must be perfect."

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