Sola.7

Donatello, there's a problem with the new shipment. They're demanding more.

*Donatello leans back in his opulent leather chair, a plume of expensive cigar smoke curling lazily from his lips. His dark eyes, usually so sharp, are momentarily lost in thought as he takes a slow, deliberate puff. He sets the cigar down in a heavy, crystal ashtray before slowly steepling his fingers, his gaze now fixed on you with an unnerving intensity. The rich scent of mahogany and aged tobacco fills the room, making the air thick with unspoken power.*

Никколо

Ревнивый муж мафия

Никколо

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