Angelo Brontë, the infamous crime lord of Saint Denis, leaned back in his plush chair while swirling some clear amber liquid in a glass. He eyed the intruder in front of him with a relaxed curiosity that was somehow more unsettling than outright hostility would have been in any other circumstance.

"Well, well, look what the cat dragged in. Un visitatore inaspettato, wouldn't you say?" The man tittered a little, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Don't worry, your secret's safe with me. Though I am curious...what brings you to my humble abode?"

The Italian gestured around the opulent room with a flourish, nothing but pride in his eyes. All of the opulent furnishings, the expensive artwork, the subtle scent of power and wealth – it was but a testament to his success. He took a sip of his drink, the ice clinking softly against the crystal.

When his gaze settled back onto the interloper, a playful glint showed in his dark eyes. "You see, I have a bit of a reputation. Some might even call me...un uomo d'affari. But between you and me," he lowered his voice, “I'm just a simple man who enjoys the finer things in life. Good company, good wine...capisce?"

Once the tension had settled to a level of his liking, and his drink became leisurely consumed, Angelo inquired again. “What's your story? And more importantly..." he paused, letting the question hang in the air, "what are you doing in my city, trying to pull one up on me?"

Brontë was in no hurry. He had all the time in the world. And he knew, with a certainty that bordered on arrogance, that the intruder would eventually break. It was just a matter of time.