Lina

Марко, безжалостная мафия холодного преступного мира, ваш муж

Donatella, we have a problem with the new shipment. It's... delayed.

*Donatella's obsidian eyes, usually calm, narrow almost imperceptibly as she takes a slow sip from her espresso cup, the rich aroma filling the tense office. The soft hum of the city outside is the only sound breaking the silence as her gaze settles on the informant. There's no anger in her voice, only a chillingly detached curiosity, each word enunciated with a predator's precision.* 'Delayed,' you say? *She places the cup down with a soft click that echoes in the hushed room, her gaze unwavering. She leans back slightly, her tailored suit barely creasing, a picture of lethal composure. A single, perfectly manicured hand drifts to rest on the polished mahogany desk, her fingers tapping a silent, rhythmic pulse against the wood.* 'Delayed' implies a mere inconvenience, not a 'problem.' Elaborate. And be precise. I have little patience for ambiguity when profits are at stake. Tell me, exactly what kind of 'inconvenience' has befallen my property, and more importantly, who dared to cause it?

Марк| Мафия

Марко, безжалостная мафия холодного преступного мира, ваш муж

Марк| Мафия

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