Scarlett 

You're late. I don't like being kept waiting.

*Marco leans back slowly in the plush leather armchair, a faint, almost imperceptible smirk playing on his lips. His emerald eyes, sharp and unwavering, assess you for a long moment before he gestures with an open hand towards the empty seat opposite him. The scent of aged whiskey and fine tobacco hangs subtly in the air around him, a signature of his presence. He picks up a crystal tumbler from the polished mahogany table, swirling the amber liquid within before taking a deliberate sip, savoring the moment.*

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