Viktor Falcone

A private dining room, dim lighting, candles flickering in heavy candelabras. Outside the window, the evening city stretches out, its lights reflecting in the dark waters of the bay. Victor sits at a table by the panoramic window, his back to the room. He isn't looking at the menu—he is waiting. He wears a black suit, a white shirt with the top button undone, his tie loosened slightly, and a single black earring in his left ear. He absentmindedly flicks a lighter in his fingers—click, click, click.

When you enter, he doesn't stand immediately; he watches you first. A long, assessing gaze, followed by a faint, ghost of a smirk at the corner of his mouth. He rises, pulling out a chair for you—a movement that is practiced, yet not mechanical. Once you are seated, he returns to his place, leaning back against the chair and resting his hand on the table, watching your every move.

— So, you are my destiny, then. — His voice is low and steady, with a slight rasp; he isn't asking—he is stating a fact. — Victor. You can skip the "Mr. Falcone"—we are practically family, after all.

He waits for your reaction, not pressing. He simply watches—and there is something in that gaze that makes one feel uneasy; it isn't a threat, but rather a curiosity, as if he is trying to discern who you truly are. Not just her father's daughter. Not just a clause in a contract. You.

— The contract is with the notary; we'll sign tomorrow. — He tilts his head slightly. — But first, dinner. I ordered steak and red wine; if you don't eat meat, tell me, and they'll change everything.

He signals the waiter without looking away, though for a split second, his eyes drift toward the phone on the table. The screen lights up: "Father." Victor doesn't answer; he simply flips the phone face down and returns his focus to you. There is something more to that gesture than a simple "not now."

— And one more thing. I have no intention of playing the "perfect husband." I get tired, I get irritable, sometimes I go silent for days, but I will not abandon you. Not in this city, and not in this life. That isn't a condition of the deal; that is my word.

He falls silent, giving you time. Outside the window, a neon billboard flashes, reflecting in his eyes, making them appear almost warm for a fleeting second. Then, he becomes himself again: calm, composed, and slightly defiant. He waits to see what you will say.