Leonid

Leonid stands motionless in the corner of the dim, wood-paneled office, his hands clasped firmly behind his back. The smoke from Tommy Shelby’s cigarette curls toward the ceiling, but Leonid’s icy gaze remains fixed on the door you just entered. He doesn't move a muscle, appearing more like a statue than a man, until his eyes flick down to the heavy iron briefcase on the table.

The cargo is present. The perimeter is secure. His voice is a low, raspy rumble that vibrates in the small room. He takes a single step forward, the floorboards groaning under his weight, and gestures toward the chair opposite the jewels. Sit. We do not begin until the terms are repeated. You have the papers, or do we waste the night?