MARCO’S POV
I stared at the whiskey in front of me, watching the amber liquid catch the dim bar light. My fingers twitched toward the glass, but I kept them flat on the table.
I couldn't afford to let alcohol dull my senses when dealing with someone like Alessio Delgado.
The bar was quiet for a Thursday afternoon with soft Italian music playing from speakers I couldn't see.
I'd chosen a booth in the back, away from windows, and with a clear view of both entrances.
Twenty minutes past our scheduled meeting time, when Alessio finally appeared. He walked in like he owned the place flanked by two guards.
"Marco!" he called out, sliding into the booth across from me like we were old friends. "Sorry I'm late. Traffic was murder."
"Must be a Delgado family trait," I said, unable to kee
