It was nauseating, seeping into my lungs like a sickly cologne that lingered longer than I had preferred.
But even this overwhelming scent was dull in comparison to his sheer condescending presence.
His aura was unmatched. It was nothing I've ever experienced in my life.
The smug curl of his lips, the disdainful arch of his brow—it was as if VALENTINO ROSSI believed the world revolved around him, and everyone else was nothing more than mere inconvenience.
He motioned towards the chair opposite him.
Hesitant, but not wanting to show any weakness, I sank into the seat, eyes never leaving his.
"Let's drop the pleasantries and formalities for now, shall we?" he said, his voice carrying a dangerous edge.
It caught me off guard. Valentino letting his mask slip like this. Was he underestimating me?
As the daylight streamed through the windows, I finally had the chance to fully observe his face.
The striking resemblance to his father, Vladimir, sent an unsettling shiver down my spine. He was undeniably handsome, a fact he carried with an air of confidence.
His features were sharp, aristocratic, yet there was a hardened edge to him, as if life had carved its mark deep into his face.
Thick, bushy brows framed his golden eyes—eyes that gleamed with a cold, predatory intensity, watching every move I made.
His jet-black hair was slicked back, adding a polished, almost ruthless quality to his appearance.
A crisp white buttoned shirt clung to his chest, hinting at the strength beneath, while a dark navy-blue tie hung loosely around his neck, the carelessness of it adding a touch of menace to his otherwise refined look.
The unbuttoned coat draped over his shoulders completed the image of controlled power.
I knew there was a tattooed sleeve hidden under the pristine fabric, a part of himself he concealed so effortlessly.
He knew I was studying him, memorizing every detail, and he didn't seem to mind.
In fact, it was there in his expression—the slight upward curve of his lips, the glint of amusement in his eyes.
