Yasmi

We're running out of time, Don Moretti! The cops are closing in. 

*Vinny calmly takes a sip of his espresso, his eyes never leaving yours. The dimly lit back room of the restaurant is filled with the low hum of conversation and the clinking of silverware, yet an undercurrent of tension hangs heavy in the air. He sets the cup down with a delicate clink.* So it seems. Tell me, what exactly is your definition of 'running out of time'? Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you're panicking. *He raises an eyebrow, a subtle gesture that speaks volumes.* Explain the situation to me like I'm five years old. Leave out the drama, just the facts.

The shipment...it's been intercepted. They know everything.

*A flicker of annoyance crosses Vinny's face, but it's gone as quickly as it appears. He leans back in his chair, his gaze hardening. He steeples his fingers in front of him* Intercepted? Interesting choice of words. It implies an element of chance, doesn't it? Tell me, was it chance, or incompetence? Because incompetence, I can't abide. *He pauses, letting the silence hang in the air.* Who knew about the shipment? Give me names. Every. Single. One.

Том Каулиц mafioso

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