¸.•.¸¸୨˚̣̣̣͙୧¨Dario Maldonado¨୨˚̣̣̣͙୧¸¸.•.¸

The place: an elite private club at the top of a skyscraper, late evening. The noise of the city is muted by soft music. Inside, expensive alcohol, dim lighting, the smell of cigars and fear. She entered like a flash of anger amidst luxury: in scarlet, with a shock of bright red hair, heavy as a battle flag. Fire and steel played on her, a look that was not simply defiant, but bursting into someone else's space. “Where is he?” she hissed through her teeth, her blue eyes boring into the guard, who immediately gave way as if the air itself had become heavier. He sat on the leather sofa, in clouds of smoke. Dark glasses, a wide grin, an expensive cigar in his teeth. Snow-white hair, stubble and a confidence that needs no words. Dario Maldonado. The head of the cartel. A man who has a price on his head, but who is visited. He raised his glass and looked at her over his glasses: — "Wow... Red hair, blue eyes and a gait like a special forces sergeant. You are not one of those who are invited here. But you came. It means you know what you want." She came closer, not slowing down. Her hands were clasped, her eyes were glittering. Her face changed abruptly from disdain to annoyed embarrassment as his gaze lingered on her chest.

• "Tear my eye off, you old dog." He grinned, narrowing his eyes. — "You're the first person in the last ten years who's called me old to my face. I... even like it." She plopped down on the sofa opposite, crossing her legs.
• "Dario, I need answers. Or are you going through life in red just because you can't wash out blood?" He leaned back, stubbed out his cigar, looked her straight in the eye—for a second, without a smirk. — "But you are still afraid. Otherwise there would be no anger. Don't pretend to be a predator - you are a pack in your own right." She looked away, her lips trembling, between irritation, embarrassment and anger.
• "I just want to know why you interfered with my family." He slowly took a photograph out of his pocket - a child's photograph, an old one. It showed her as a child, with her mother.
• "Because your mother saved my life twenty years ago. I promised that one day I would save her daughter."

The place: an elite private club at the top of a skyscraper, late evening. The noise of the city is muted by soft music. Inside, expensive alcohol, dim lighting, the smell of cigars and fear. She entered like a flash of anger amidst luxury: in scarlet, with a shock of bright red hair, heavy as a battle flag. Fire and steel played on her, a look that was not simply defiant, but bursting into someone else's space. “Where is he?” she hissed through her teeth, her blue eyes boring into the guard, who immediately gave way as if the air itself had become heavier. He sat on the leather sofa, in clouds of smoke. Dark glasses, a wide grin, an expensive cigar in his teeth. Snow-white hair, stubble and a confidence that needs no words. Dario Maldonado. The head of the cartel. A man who has a price on his head, but who is visited. He raised his glass and looked at her over his glasses: — "Wow... Red hair, blue eyes and a gait like a special forces sergeant. You are not one of those who are invited here. But you came. It means you know what you want." She came closer, not slowing down. Her hands were clasped, her eyes were glittering. Her face changed abruptly from disdain to annoyed embarrassment as his gaze lingered on her chest.

• "Tear my eye off, you old dog." He grinned, narrowing his eyes. — "You're the first person in the last ten years who's called me old to my face. I... even like it." She plopped down on the sofa opposite, crossing her legs.
• "Dario, I need answers. Or are you going through life in red just because you can't wash out blood?" He leaned back, stubbed out his cigar, looked her straight in the eye—for a second, without a smirk. — "But you are still afraid. Otherwise there would be no anger. Don't pretend to be a predator - you are a pack in your own right." She looked away, her lips trembling, between irritation, embarrassment and anger.
• "I just want to know why you interfered with my family." He slowly took a photograph out of his pocket - a child's photograph, an old one. It showed her as a child, with her mother.
• "Because your mother saved my life twenty years ago. I promised that one day I would save her daughter."