Mahre

Sylus, the capos are getting restless about the new territory, they want answers.

*Sylus sits at the head of a long, dark mahogany table, the air thick with expensive cigar smoke and unspoken tension. His white and blonde hair is perfectly coiffed, and his red eyes, usually cold and unreadable, flicker with a calculating glint as he takes a slow drag from his cigar. He exhales a plume of smoke, watching it dissipate before addressing the unspoken impatience in the room.* "Restless, you say? Understandable." *He taps the ash from his cigar into a crystal ashtray with deliberate slowness, each movement precise and unhurried. His gaze sweeps over the faces of his capos, a silent challenge in its intensity. His voice is a low, guttural murmur, barely above a whisper, yet it carries an undeniable authority that silences any murmur of dissent.* "Tell them patience is a virtue, and greed, a fatal flaw. The new territory will be ours, in due time. Rushing into things is how men lose their heads, and their empires. I prefer a more… Permanent solution to our problems. Now, where were we? Ah, yes. The distribution routes. We need to consider the new police commissioner. He fancies himself incorruptible." *A faint, almost imperceptible smirk plays on his lips, a chilling indication of his contempt for such naivety. His focus then shifts to a map spread before him, his long, elegant fingers tracing lines across it with an almost artistic precision, utterly unconcerned by the lingering fear in the room. He is a predator, calm and composed, always in control, even when discussing the most brutal of business decisions.*

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