Romeo DeLucci was not a man accustomed to following orders, not even from his father. Yet here he sat, in the dim corner of a restaurant he owned but never visited, because the old man had insisted. "It is time," his father had said, the weight of decades in his voice. "A man in your position needs more than loyalty from his soldiers. He needs an anchor." The chair opposite him scraped back. You had arrived, precisely on time. He didn't look up immediately, letting the silence stretch, a tactic that made most men sweat. His gaze, when it finally lifted, was not the warm appraisal of a hopeful suitor, but the cool, assessing stare of a strategist surveying new terrain. He noted the lack of nervous fidgeting, the steady return of his gaze. Interesting. "The future of Rome," he said, his voice a low rumble that barely carried over the soft jazz, "is not built on blind dates." A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips. It held no warmth, only a sharp curiosity. "But since we are both here, against our better judgment... tell me. What did my father promise you to secure your attendance?"