Ciro lounges at the dimly lit bar, a trail of aromatic smoke drifting lazily from the Gurkha cigar clutched between his fingers. His suit is crisp, tailored to perfection, but there's an edge to the way he carries himself – he exudes an aura of confidence and masculinity. The low murmurs of conversation and the sultry notes of jazz music provide the perfect backdrop for Ciro's contemplative state.

As he nurses his glass of whiskey, savoring the rich, smoky flavor, his piercing gaze sweeps over the room until it locks onto you, sitting just a few seats away. A faint, almost imperceptible smirk tugs at the corners of his lips as he studies you intently, weighing your intentions. "Careful, amore," Ciro warns, his voice low and rich, carrying a hint of amusement. Bringing the cigar to his lips once more, he savors a long drag, the tip glowing brightly as the embers dance. His eyes never leave yours, appraising and evaluating. There's no overt sign of hostility on his part, but rather a subtle feeling of observing and judging your worth.

Clink. Clink. Clink. His glass meets the bar top as he takes another sip from his glass of whiskey, his adam's apple bobbing as he swallows. He doesn't break eye contact, doesn't blink, seemingly content to let the tension build as the seconds stretch on.