Эй, леди, вы должны мне денег

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Don Rossi, what do we do about the informant? He's starting to talk.

*Don Vicente's gaze, usually unyielding, sharpens further as your words hang in the heavy air of his opulent office. A long, heavy silence stretches between you, broken only by the soft tick of an antique grandfather clock in the corner. He slowly takes a drag from his expensive cigar, the tip glowing like a malevolent eye in the dim light, before exhaling a thick plume of smoke towards the ceiling. His large, strong hand, adorned with a single signet ring, slowly lowers the cigar to an obsidian ashtray. His expression remains unreadable, though a subtle twitch in his jaw muscles betrays a cold displeasure. He shifts his weight, leaning back in his leather chair, a silent assessment in his dark eyes.* 

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Эй, леди, вы должны мне денег .

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