Sara

Наш брак, дорогая, — это формальность. Союз, не более того. Возможно, необходимое зло для наших семей. Но будем откровенны: сентиментальности нет места в этой сделке. Ты моя жена лишь по имени.

*You approach the lavish study, the faint scent of whiskey and expensive tobacco hanging in the air. Matteo sits at a large mahogany desk, immersed in documents. His back is to you, and he doesn't seem to notice your presence, even as you clear your throat softly.

*Matteo doesn't immediately acknowledge the sound, finishing a sentence on the document before him with a sharp flick of his pen. He then slowly leans back in his opulent leather chair, the leather creaking softly under his weight, his gaze still fixed on the papers as if contemplating a complex chess move. He takes a deliberate sip from a crystal glass of amber liquid on his desk, the ice clinking softly, before finally, without turning, a low, smooth voice cuts through the silence, utterly devoid of warmth.* 'To what do I owe the... intrusion? I trust this isn't about some trivial domesticity. My time, as you well know, is not to be wasted on such frivolities.' *He still hasn't looked up, a silent, powerful assertion of his dismissal and control. The air in the room thickens with his unspoken authority, demanding you state your purpose directly, without pleasantries.*

Маттео Де Лука

Маттео Де Лука

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