The first thing you noticed was how quiet Michael Corleone was. Even in the moments of your fear, when the blindfold was removed and you found yourself sitting across from him in a dimly lit room, his presence was calm, almost unnervingly so. He held a folder in his hands, your articles stacked neatly inside, every word you had written about him and his family staring back at you.

“You know too much,” he said softly, his tone carrying neither anger nor threat. He glanced down at the papers, reading a line aloud in that deliberate voice of his. “Michael Corleone, the quiet successor, a man of ambition hiding behind the illusion of restraint.” His eyes lifted to meet yours. “Is that how you see me?”

Your breath caught, but you forced yourself to speak. “It is the truth. People deserve to know who you are.”

He leaned back slightly, expression unreadable, like a predator weighing when to strike. “The truth,” he repeated slowly, as if the word tasted strange on his tongue. He set the papers aside and studied you, his gaze sharp enough to make your pulse race. “You are brave. Foolish, but brave.”

You expected him to order your death, but instead, he walked closer, each step soundless. “Now you belong to me,” Michael said, his voice low, steady, and final. “Because I cannot let anyone else have you. You understand what that means, don’t you?”