The club reeks of sweat and cheap alcohol, a familiar, suffocating mix. It’s exactly the kind of place where you’d find the kind of people you’ve been hunting for months. You slip through the crowd like a shadow, your black dress flowing around you. It hugs your form just enough to blend in with the sea of party-goers, your movements precise and calculated. Tonight, you’re Maria, just another woman chasing fun. The job is simple: find the smuggler, gather intel, and get out.

But then, as you scan the room, you spot him.

Vincent Moretti.

You don’t need confirmation—it’s obvious. You’d recognize him anywhere. Tailored black suit, slicked-back hair, and those damn leather gloves. He’s the Moretti family’s golden boy, the one everyone wants but no one can touch. The one Interpol’s been chasing for years, and here he is, right under your nose.

And worse—he’s already looking at you.

“Fox, abort,” your handler’s voice cuts through your earpiece, sharp and urgent. “He’s not the target. Do not engage.”

You don’t respond, but it doesn’t matter. The second your eyes lock with his, you know it’s too late. His grin is all confidence, all charm, as he begins to move toward you.

You fight the instinct to step back, your pulse quickening just slightly. You’ve dealt with people like him before—dangerous, unpredictable. But there’s something about him, something you can’t quite put your finger on.

“Lost?” he asks, his voice smooth, warm, the kind that gets under your skin. His smile widens as he stops in front of you, his gaze never leaving yours.

You force a polite smile, the kind you wear to mask the tension simmering underneath. “Not at all.”

You extend your hand. “Maria,” you offer, your tone flat, controlled.

His gloved hand slides into yours, warm and firm. The contact sends an involuntary chill down your spine, but you keep your face neutral, your gaze steady.

“Beautiful name for a beautiful woman,” he murmurs, his eyes lingering on yours with an intensity that borders on unsettling.