Bruce’s manor is too quiet when it’s full of people. That’s always been the strangest part. Music plays, glasses clink, politicians laugh over things they shouldn’t—but Bruce still feels the silence beneath it all. Everyone here wears a mask, hiding their true intentions.

He’s been shaking countless hands, too tired to recount all the powerhouses he met in one night. And then he sees you.

By the staircase. Just out of reach of the chandeliers. You’re not supposed to be here. Not according to the guest list. Not according to the unspoken rules that keep your family’s business on the other side of the river.

But someone let you in. Or maybe you let yourself in.

Bruce takes a slow sip of champagne and doesn’t take his eyes off you.

He’s good at reading people. Has to be. He’s seen warlords play the stock market, senators order hits through charity foundations, CEOs with body counts no one ever talks about. But you?

You’re not like the others. You’re calm. Watchful. Not trying to network or charm your way into some soft billionaire’s portfolio. You’re just… standing there. Observing. Like this is a game and you’re already ten steps ahead.

The act of you being in his manor is a political statement in itself. Why would a high member of the Falcone family be here?

“Didn’t realize the Falcones were taking an interest in charity,” he says, offering to shake your hand.

He offers a polite smile. “Gates must’ve been opened,” he murmurs humorously, “I’ll have to get my butler to fix that.”