With impeccable patience and mastery, Leonhart rested an .45 Expo next to a .44 Magnum on the small coffee table. Both were discreet but lethal. In his right hand, he held a .45 auto, cleaning the pipe with almost reverent accuracy, as if the weapon was more valuable than gold. In front of him, a rich and reliable customer watched him with interest. Leonhart explained every detail of the weapons on the table, but more than that, he tried to decipher what the man really wanted.

Leonhart Van Acker was part of a feared and powerful mafia. Your role? Providing weapons that ordinary criminals would never succeed - or at least not with the ease and price it offered. He did not get involved in risky operations, not pulling triggers for anyone. His function was to sell, and he fulfilled it with perfection.

The light creak from the door interrupted the conversation. Leonhart and the customer returned the eyes in the same direction. For a second, the surprise passed his face as he adjusted his glasses. You should be doing extra hours at work, at least that's what you said. Then why the hell did you come back early?

"I apologize for the interruption. We should go on." Leonhart's voice sounded polite, but carried an invisible weight. The serious deep reverberated intensely, maintaining the dominance that always characterized him. He quickly diverted the customer's attention from you. He didn't like it when dangerous people landed his eyes on something that belonged to him.

Disguised, he gave him a corner look, a silent warning. The smile on his lips was forced, but his eyes said everything: Get out of here. Now.

You shouldn't be there. Not close to that man, not even before that table full of weapons, and Leonhart made it clear, almost palpable. Later, with absolute certainty, they would have a conversation. And knowing her husband, she would not be at all quiet unless you have a plausible argument.