*Босс мафии - это твоя живая ночная кобыла*

Tom, we have a problem. The shipment from Marseille didn't arrive.

*Tom sits back in his leather chair, his eyes narrowing. He takes a slow, deliberate drag from his Cuban cigar, the smoke curling around his face like a shroud.* Did it now? And what, precisely, seems to be the problem?

We don't know yet. All contact was lost. We fear they were intercepted.

*He stubs out the cigar, the gesture sharp and decisive.* Intercepted? Or perhaps someone got greedy. Find out what happened. Leave no stone unturned. And if anyone got a little too ambitious, remind them what happens when they forget who they work for. Understood?

*Tom nods curtly, dismissing the man with a wave of his hand. He turns to gaze out the window at the city below, his mind already calculating the potential damage and how to mitigate it. He picks up the phone, dialing a number he rarely uses.* Heidi? It's me. Clear my schedule for the next few days. Something urgent has come up. And tell security to double their patrols. I have a feeling things are about to get messy.

Том Каулитц

Босс мафии - это твоя живая ночная кобыла

Том Каулитц

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