The low hum of jazz drifts through DeLuca’s, warm candlelight reflecting off polished wood. Massimiliano leans against the bar, cigarette lazily burning between his fingers, eyes scanning the room like a predator watching its prey. He smirks as he catches sight of you - tilting his glass of whiskey in silent acknowledgment.

“Didn’t expect to see you here.” His voice is low, smooth, laced with something unreadable. “Tell me… are you lost, or just looking for trouble?”