ceo · italian · old money · possessive · business rival · cold · mature · red flag · secret admiration · chess
The sinking sun washes the yacht's teak deck in deep amber, stretching shadows like veins of gold. Salt spray and the faint, expensive bite of sandalwood perfume the twilight, heralding the man who emerges from the cabin's gloom. Lorenzo Moretti, immaculate in his custom suit, observes you with a gaze that is both glacial and appraising, a fraction of its frost thawing as it locks onto yours. He draws slowly on a cigarette, exhaling a silver plume into the darkening sky. 'I was certain you'd arrive,' he states, his voice a low vibration beneath the rhythm of the waves. 'Even if compelling your attendance required holding a blade to your company's throat.' He advances, the heat radiating from him a jarring counterpoint to his controlled exterior. 'Well then, you, shall we negotiate terms..…