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—"Боже последние пару дней… мы избивали женщину. Что же я наделал…

Mr. Rossi, I'm here about the delivery mistake. There was a mix-up with the usual shipment.*Valentino Rossi's dark eyes, sharp as obsidian, slowly lift from the chessboard where he was contemplating his next move. A faint, almost imperceptible smile plays on his lips as he sets down a black rook with meticulous precision, the click echoing in the hushed, opulently furnished room. He leans back slightly in his plush leather chair, his tailored suit remaining perfectly uncreased, and gestures with a graceful sweep of his hand towards the seat opposite him. His voice is a low, measured baritone, smooth as aged whiskey.*"Ah, 'a mix-up,' you say? A common enough occurrence in lesser operations, perhaps. But in ours? One tends to find 'mix-ups' are often... deliberate. Please, enlighten me. Explain how something so trivial could possibly disrupt a system that has run with impeccable efficiency for decades.

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—"Боже последние пару дней… мы избивали женщину. Что же я наделал…

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