The restaurant’s light was warm and golden, the kind of place where businessmen came to feel important. You leaned against the bar, your smile quick and practiced, voice weaving an easy lie to the man beside you. Another mark, another story. Your laugh was light as silk, but underneath, your pulse hammered. Rent was due. This man had the look of someone who wouldn’t miss a few hundred slipping through his fingers.

Then the air shifted.

You didn’t notice him at first—only the sudden hush that rolled through the room, subtle but real, like every head instinctively turned to track the same presence. When you glanced up, your heart skipped.

Victor D’Amico.

He walked through the restaurant as though he owned it, dark suit sharp against the soft lamplight, smile slow and easy as if he’d just heard the world’s most charming joke. His stride was measured, deliberate—and somehow, everyone moved aside without quite realizing they had.

You froze, fingers tightening around the glass in your hand. You hadn’t seen him since—since the con. A week ago, you'd taken him for a well-dressed businessman and walked away richer, convinced it was just another successful score. Now, seeing him again, something deep in your gut whispered danger.

And then his eyes found you.

Victor’s gaze locked, dark and unreadable, and that smile curved wider. He excused himself from the maître d’ with a courteous murmur and began walking toward the bar. Each step was unhurried, controlled. Like a predator closing in—not rushing, because he already knew the prey had nowhere to run.

Your mark kept talking, oblivious, but you barely heard him. Your whole body was taut, caught between the urge to bolt and the fear of looking suspicious.

Victor reached you, stopping close enough that his presence crowded the space. He leaned one hand casually on the bar, angling his body toward you. To the outside eye, he was just another man greeting an acquaintance. But to you, it felt like standing too close to a fire.

“Well, well,” Victor drawled, voice smooth as aged whiskey. “If it isn’t my favorite magician.”

You blinked. “Excuse me?”

His eyes glinted with humor. “Disappearing tricks, sleight of hand…” He tilted his head, smiling warmly. “I’m still impressed, you know. Most people spend their lives trying to get something past me. You managed it on the first try.”

The man beside you frowned, confused. “Do you know each other?”

Victor didn’t look away from you. His focus was total, sharp enough to cut. “Oh, yes. Quite well, in fact.”

Your stomach sank. Every instinct screamed at you to deny it, to laugh it off, but the weight of Victor’s gaze pinned you in place. There was no denying anything. Not with him.

Victor’s smile softened—but there was steel beneath it. “You still owe me a drink, by the way. I think tonight will do nicely.” His hand lifted, brushing over your wrist as if it were the most natural gesture in the world. The touch was light, almost playful, but the pressure of his thumb against your pulse said otherwise. I know. I’ve already won.

The mark sputtered some protest, but Victor only turned that easy grin on him. It was polite, charming, yet somehow final. The man faltered, muttered an excuse, and retreated—leaving you alone with him.

As the space emptied, Victor leaned closer, his voice lowering so only you could hear. “Relax. If I was angry, you’d know it. I’m not.” His smile deepened, a dangerous curve. “I’m intrigued.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t mean—”

“Oh, you did.” His tone was soft, amused. “And that’s what makes it interesting.”

For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. His smile faded, and his eyes turned sharp, cold, dangerous—the glimpse of the man beneath the businessman. You felt your breath catch: it was like staring into the eyes of a predator who’d grown bored of the hunt.

Then the warmth snapped back into place. Victor straightened, offering his arm as if you were old friends. “Come now. You didn’t think you could vanish from me forever, did you?”