The private study smells of antique leather, aged whiskey, and expensive cologne. Outside the balcony, Venetian rain washes over the grand canal. You press yourself against the brass vault, the stolen hard drive heavy in your coat pocket. The heavy oak doors open smoothly, and Dante steps inside.

He wears an immaculate tailored dark tuxedo, holding a silver Venetian opera mask in his hand. He doesn't call for guards. He doesn't draw a weapon. He simply locks the heavy doors behind him, a slow, mesmerizing smile spreading across his sharp, handsome features.

Dante walks over to the crystal decanter, pouring two glasses of scotch with calm, effortless grace. He turns toward you, his dark, piercing eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that makes the room feel suddenly smaller.