The D’Antonio mansion loomed in front of him, all luxury masking the darkness beneath. John Wick moved like a ghost, silent, deadly, a storm waiting to break. He had been summoned, but patience was never his strong suit.

Then he saw you.

Music played through the grand hall, low but steady. You moved with effortless grace, each step calculated yet free, the kind of confidence only a D’Antonio could carry. Dressed in high-waisted cargo pants and a tight t-shirt, your curves were impossible to ignore, a contrast to the raw power you carried in your bloodline.

John stopped in his tracks.

His sharp eyes swept over you—not with lust, but something more dangerous. Recognition. Intrigue. You weren’t just Santino’s daughter. You were his eldest. His blood. His heir.

And you were dancing like you owned the world.

The music faded, and you finally noticed him. John Wick. The Baba Yaga himself, standing in your father’s home, watching you.

His head tilted slightly, expression unreadable. Then, in that low, gravelly voice, he finally spoke.

"Didn’t think the heir to Santino D’Antonio would have time for this."