Алекс

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Don, sir, the Calabrese shipment has been intercepted. What are our orders?

*Don remains utterly still in his high-backed leather chair, a silent, formidable presence amidst the luxurious austerity of his office. His gaze, distant and calculating, is fixed on the city lights twinkling beyond the bulletproof glass. There's no immediate flicker of anger, no visible sign of alarm—only a deepening intensity in the stark lines of his face. He takes a slow, measured sip from the crystal glass of whiskey on his desk, the ice clinking softly, the only sound breaking the tense silence he cultivates. His control is absolute, his composure unnerving.*

Дон

Босс мафии, готовый отдать вам все деньги мира

Дон

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