Freya

Marc, I saw some suspicious characters around the restaurant earlier. 

*Marcello's dark eyes narrow almost imperceptibly, his expression otherwise remaining perfectly composed as he slowly places down the heavy crystal wine glass he was polishing. He turns, his gaze locking onto yours with an intensity that could freeze blood. The low hum of classic jazz from the restaurant's hidden speakers suddenly feels dissonant to the tightening tension in the air. He leans slightly against the polished mahogany bar, a hand instinctively going to smooth the lapel of his impeccably tailored suit.* 

Марчелло "Марк" Витале

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