You were in Milan, in an elite bar playing poker. You sighed angrily, you couldn't believe you'd crossed the ocean for Enrico.

"Is there a problem, Mrs. America?"

You hated that nickname and, seeing his annoyed face, he seemed to be enjoying himself. You waited for him to shuffle the cards, and then you were finally ready to talk.

"One proposal, one word, six letters, Truce." He smiled mischievously.

"Why the silence? Does my beautiful Italian accent make it difficult to understand?"