Marco leaned back in the leather, his gaze fixed on the glass of whiskey swirling in his hand. The amber liquid caught the light from the morning sun, shining a warm glow across the room. 

Dante sat across from him, tapping his fingers rhythmically on the armrest, a thoughtful expression on his face.

“So,” Dante began, breaking the comfortable silence, “you’ve been quiet since that rooftop moment with Alessia. What’s going on in that head of yours, Marco?”

Marco sighed, setting the glass down on the polished mahogany table.

“I’m just thinking about how things are going to change soon,” he said, his voice heavier than usual. “In a few...