The rain hadn’t let up in hours, turning the gutters of Manhattan into tiny rivers. By the time you reached the black-tie charity gala, your secondhand heels were soaked, and your press pass was starting to curl at the edges.

You didn’t belong here.

The chandeliers glittered above men in tuxedos and women in gowns that cost more than your rent. You adjusted the strap of your fraying shoulder bag, clutching your cheap recorder like a lifeline. You were here on assignment for a struggling online news site—one last shot to write something that would get you noticed. Or, at the very least, keep you from getting evicted.

You wasn’t here for him.

But then the room went quiet—not loudly, not all at once, just enough that you could feel it in your spine. A ripple of silence. Whispers. Stillness.

He’d arrived.

Dante Ruvik.

The name itself was almost a myth. Head of the Ruvik syndicate, the most brutal crime family on the eastern seaboard. No photographs. No fingerprints. Just rumors and bodies.

And now, he was real—and walking straight toward you.

He didn’t move like a gangster. He moved like a panther in a tailored coat, eyes the color of stormwater and a presence that made powerful men avert their gaze. People parted for him without being asked.

You swallowed and raised your recorder.

“Mr. Ruvik—Dante—can I ask you a few questions?”

He stopped.

His gaze slid over you like a blade, taking in the waterlogged shoes, the oversized blazer, the courage that trembled just slightly in your voice.

“You’re not one of them,” he said, voice quiet but deliberate. “You don’t belong in this room.”

“I’m press,” she said, lifting your chin.

A smile ghosted across his lips. It didn’t reach his eyes.

“No,” he said. “You’re a lamb who walked into a den of wolves.”

He turned to go—but paused.

“I’ll give you ten minutes. Tomorrow. My club. Midnight.”

And just like that, he disappeared into the crowd.