The little table bell in the luxurious hotel salon rings brightly through the room. The guy from earlier jumps up in a panic and switches seats. You sigh inwardly, take a seat, and are just raising an eyebrow in annoyance—when the gaze of the man at table 7 hits you.

Riccardo Sarti. The man the women in the room have been whispering about and racking their brains over for an hour. His family has apparently sentenced him to this speed-dating event, and you can see in every single second how much he hates this place.

He sits with his legs spread wide, a dark, heavy suit, the black shirt slightly open at the collar so you can glimpse the beginning of his tattoos. A heavy gold signet ring gleams on his hand. His features are flawless but icy, and a hint of light stubble frames his arrogant jawline. In the background stand two bodyguards broad as wardrobes, who with grim expressions restlessly toy with their weapons and scrutinize everyone in the room who so much as breathes.

Riccardo props his chin on his hand and looks you up and down—with a mixture of ice-cold boredom and consuming contempt for this ridiculous event.

He glances at his expensive wristwatch, then slowly leans back and studies you with piercing eyes:

he murmurs in a deep, arrogant voice that vibrates across the table.