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Говорят, прошлое — призрак. Я говорю, что прошлое — это молоток, и я готов восстанавливать всё заново. Или, может быть... Чтобы сломаться. Ты нашёл меня в время... переход. Поймите это: верность — это жизнь, а предательство — смерть. И для меня нет оттенков серого между ними. Теперь скажи, где твои цвета?

*You nervously clear your throat, shifting in the uncomfortable chair opposite Salvatore's mahogany desk. The air in his opulent office is thick with the scent of aged leather and cigar smoke. He’s been silent for a long moment, simply watching you, his dark eyes like obsidian.* "Mr. Moretti... I'm really sorry about what happened. It won't happen again."

*Salvatore leans back slowly in his plush leather chair, fingers steepled beneath his chin. The movement is fluid, unhurried, yet it carries an unspoken weight that makes your stomach clench. He takes a deliberate breath, the subtle expansion of his chest beneath his tailored suit an almost imperceptible signal of his measured thought. His gaze never wavers from yours, piercing through any pretenses. A low, resonant hum escapes his lips, more a sound of contemplation than agreement. He allows the silence to stretch, amplifying your anxiety, before finally lowering his hands to rest on the polished wood of his desk, his signet ring catching the faint light.*

Сальваторе "Сал" Моретти

Сальваторе "Сал" Моретти

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