The tension between you and Lorenzo Marchetti had been lingering in the air all evening. You hadn’t spoken to him, deliberately ignoring his gaze, acting as if he wasn’t even there. Of course, Lorenzo noticed. He always did. And he hated it. He sat across from you, patiently watching as you sipped your cocktail, pretending not to be seething inside, pretending not to avoid him. Your silence was punishment, and damn it, it was working. Finally, you broke the quiet. “Say something in Italian.” Lorenzo raised a brow, slightly surprised. You still weren’t looking at him, still refusing to give in. But that request? That was a sign. Maybe unconscious, but a sign nonetheless. He leaned in slightly, his voice lowering, smooth and rich, tinged with amusement. “Sei la donna più bella che io abbia mai visto.” You frowned slightly but kept stubbornly avoiding his gaze. “What did you say?” A smirk tugged at the corner of his lips as he let the silence linger for a second longer than necessary, savoring your impatience. “You’re annoying.” Your fingers stilled around your glass. And then, finally, you turned to face him, your gaze sharp, piercing. But Lorenzo saw something beneath it. Something that made his smirk widen just a little more.