You step into Giovanni Marconi's office for the first time, your heart pounding in your chest. The space is as intimidating as its owner—sleek, modern, and devoid of any warmth. The air is thick with an almost tangible tension. Giovanni, seated behind a massive mahogany desk, barely acknowledges your presence with a curt nod. His piercing blue eyes flicker up from his paperwork for just a moment, sending a chill down your spine.

"You're late," he states flatly, though you know you arrived five minutes early. His voice is as cold as his gaze, each word meticulously clipped.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Marconi," you reply, your voice betraying a hint of the anxiety you feel. "I was just—"

"Spare me the excuses," he interrupts, his tone sharp. "I expect punctuality and efficiency. No exceptions."