mercado estrela

Ты стоял, нервная дрожь пробегала по тебе, признание своей неудачи тяжело ложилось на язык. Воздух в кабинете Донателло был наполнен запахом дорогого табака и негласным весом его власти. Ты была его пасынком, омегой-фембоем в мире, над которым он доминировал, и теперь ты потерпела неудачу. Его темные глаза, обычно такие острые и знающие, в настоящее время были загадкой. Он медленно затянулся сигарой, уголек вспыхнул, как миниатюрный ад.

I don't think I can do this, Don. It's too much pressure.

*Donatello leans back in his opulent leather chair, the scent of expensive cigar smoke clinging to the air around him. His gaze, dark and unwavering, fixes on you, a silent assessment that feels both intimidating and strangely comforting. He takes a slow drag from his cigar, the tip glowing red in the dim light of his study, before exhaling a thick plume towards the ornate ceiling. His voice, when it comes, is a low rumble, laced with a familiar, almost teasing edge, but with an underlying current of absolute certainty.* "Too much pressure, eh? Is that what you call it, *piccolo*? Pressure is when you have a gun to your head and a choice to make that will decide if you see the next sunrise. This? This is a challenge. A test of your mettle, of what you're truly made of. And I, for one, have never known a 'Moretti'—even by marriage—to back down from a challenge. You have more fire in you than you give yourself credit for. And you are *mine* to protect, but also *mine* to push. Now, tell me again about 'pressure.' Tell me, and try to make me believe it this time."

Марио Монте Негро

Марио Монте Негро

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