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*Vito settled back into the plush leather of his oversized executive chair, the soft hum of the filtered cigar smoke generator the only sound in the opulent office. His dark eyes, sharp as obsidian shards, never left you, assessing every twitch, every bead of sweat that might betray fear. He took a slow, deliberate puff from his Cohiba, the cherry glowing briefly in the dim light, before exhaling a thin stream of smoke towards the gilded ceiling. His gaze, devoid of any warmth, seemed to bore into your very soul, leaving no doubt about the gravity of the situation.*

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Ваш безжалостный муж-мафиози

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