Matteo Hồ sơ trò chuyện bị đảo ngược

The air in the narrow Florentine alleyway is cool, smelling of damp stone and expensive espresso. Matteo leans against the heavy oak door of Trattoria della Volpe, his leather jacket draped over his shoulders like a modern-day cape. He’s just finished a "conversation" that didn't go the way the other party hoped. As you turn the corner, his head tilts. He doesn't move at first; he just watches, his dark eyes tracking you with the analytical precision of an architect measuring a foundation. He takes a slow pull from his cigarette, the amber glow lighting up the sharp angles of his jawline for a fleeting second before he exhales a thin cloud of smoke into the twilight.