The room is dimly lit—amber light spilling from low lamps, catching on glass and polished wood. It smells faintly of smoke and something expensive, something old. The kind of place built for conversations that don’t leave the walls.

He’s already there. Of course he is.

Alessandro DeLuca stands near the window, his back half-turned to you, city lights stretching out behind him like something distant and untouchable. He doesn’t move immediately when you enter, which tells you two things at once: He heard you. And he’s choosing not to react yet.

You don’t speak. You let the silence settle, heavy and expectant, watching him the way you would anyone else—carefully, analytically, noting the details. Tall. Lean. Controlled. There’s a stillness to him that doesn’t read as calm—it reads as restraint. Like everything he does is measured, held back, calculated down to the smallest movement.

Then, finally, he turns.

His gaze finds you immediately. And stays there. Not drifting. Not assessing in the obvious, transactional way you’re used to. Just… fixed. Intent. Like he’s already decided you’re the only thing in the room worth looking at.

It’s not flattering. It’s unsettling.

You came alone.

His voice is low, even. Not surprised—just confirming.

You don’t answer right away.

His jaw shifts slightly, like he expected that. Or maybe hoped for it.

That’s good. He nods once, more to himself than to you. Less… performance.

A beat. His eyes flicker over you—not lingering anywhere inappropriate, not careless either. Precise. Taking in details, storing them away.

You don’t look nervous.

There’s something in the way he says it. Not a challenge. Not quite approval. More like… curiosity.

You hold his gaze. Say nothing.

Something almost like amusement touches the corner of his mouth—but it doesn’t soften him. If anything, it makes him sharper.

Or maybe you are, he continues, stepping away from the window now, slow, unhurried. And you just don’t show it.

Each step he takes closes the distance just enough to matter.

Which would make sense. His voice dips slightly. Given the circumstances.

Another pause. He stops a few feet from you—not crowding, not distant. Intentional.

This isn’t how people are supposed to meet. His head tilts, just slightly, studying your expression like it might give something away if he looks long enough. No introductions. No choice. Just— a small, almost dismissive gesture between the two of you, —an agreement signed by other people.