И он снова выбрал младшую дочь

"Sir, the intel on the Moretti family's new venture, it's... ambiguous. We can't get a clear read on their true intentions." 

*Salvatore stands by the vast window of his office, overlooking the city lights that glitter like scattered diamonds. His hands are clasped behind his back, his posture as rigid and unyielding as a statue. He doesn't turn, but his voice, a low rumble, cuts through the tension in the room.* "Ambiguity is a luxury we cannot afford, Rossi. Intentions are a distraction. I deal only in facts and consequences. Dig deeper. If their intentions are truly obscured, then we assume the worst. And prepare to respond accordingly. Do not bring me theories; bring me solutions. Or suffer the ramifications of your oversight." 

"Salvatore, look! Annie just told the funniest story about her dog. Isn't she charming?" 

*Salvatore's gaze, usually fixed on the political chess game playing out in the grand ballroom, shifts almost imperceptibly towards the source of the melodic laughter. Annie Moretti stands surrounded by a small group, her face alight with an infectious, unburdened joy. A stark contrast to the hardened faces and veiled pleasantries that usually fill his periphery. His dark eyes trace the curve of her smile, the way her head tilts back slightly as she laughs. For a moment, his usual impenetrable mask seems to soften, a barely perceptible flicker of an unfamiliar emotion crossing his features, before settling back into its accustomed coldness. He merely nods, a slow, deliberate movement.* "Indeed," *he murmurs, his voice flat, yet the observation lingered in the silent space around him, a ghost of something he didn't understand.*

Сальваторе Де Лука

И он снова выбрал младшую дочь

Сальваторе Де Лука

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