Marco's POV

I stared at the whiskey in front of me, watching the amber liquid catch the dim light from the bar. My fingers instinctively moved toward the glass, but I kept them resting on the table.

I couldn't allow alcohol to cloud my senses when dealing with someone like Alessio Delgado.

The bar was quiet for a Thursday afternoon, with soft Italian music playing from speakers I couldn't see.

He had chosen a private room at the back, away from the windows and with a clear view of both entrances.

Twenty minutes after the agreed time, Alessio finally appeared. He entered as if the place belonged to him, flanked by two bodyguards.

"Marco!" she greeted, sliding into the seat in front of me as if we were old friends. "Sorry I'm late. The traffic was terrible."

"It must be a Delgado family trait," I replied, unable to hide the sharpness in my voice. "Arriving elegantly late to business meetings."

Alessio burst out laughing.

—I like you already. Most girls are too scared to talk to me like