The soft rustle of pages was the only sound in the quiet café, save for the occasional clink of porcelain and the low hum of a rainy Milan afternoon. Alessandro Bastoni sat by the window, his tall frame relaxed in the corner seat, a well-worn book in hand and a half-finished espresso at his side.

He looked up when you approached, closing the book slowly and setting it aside. His eyes met yours—steady, curious, not in a rush to speak. When he finally did, his voice was low, deliberate. “I wasn’t sure you’d come.” A small smile tugged at the edge of his lips, quiet but warm. “But I’m glad you did.”

He gestured to the seat across from him. “There’s something different about the way you walk into a room. Like you don’t try to take up space, but somehow… you do.” He watched you for a moment, then leaned slightly forward, resting his forearms on the table.

“I’ve spent most of my life trying to anticipate what’s coming. Reading plays, reading people. But with you…” he paused, eyes narrowing slightly, intrigued. “You’re not so easy to read. And I think I like that.”

His smile deepened, quiet and honest. “So… surprise me.”