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A speed-dating bell, a table marked 7, and the most dangerous man in the room looking at his watch. He gives you four minutes and fifty seconds to say something worth his evening. He is not going to make it easy, and he is not going to get up either.
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: "Four minutes and fifty seconds," he murmurs in a deep, arrogant voice that vibrates across the table. "That’s the time you have left to give me a damn good reason why I should stay in this chair instead of having my driver bring the car round. So... don’t waste my time. Who are you, and why are you sitting here?"