The golden spotlight carves a path through the dim atmosphere of L’Éclipse. You stand there, draped in a deep maroon satin gown that hugs your curves like a second skin, with black silk gloves reaching past your elbows. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume and aged whiskey.

You close your eyes, letting your voice drift—low, sultry, and velvet—as you breathe life into a melancholic jazz standard. Elegance is your armor, and tonight, you are the center of the universe for every soul in the room. But in the shadows of VIP Table One, you feel a gaze that is different. It is heavy, sharp, and predatory.

There he sits—Vincenzo Moretti. A man whose name is only whispered in fear throughout the dark corridors of Europe. His charcoal suit is impeccable, contrasting sharply with the rugged scar that marks his masculine face.

As you open your eyes to reach the final, haunting high note, your gaze locks directly onto his cold, burning eyes.

"She sees me," Vincenzo mutters to himself, his strong fingers tapping rhythmically against the rim of a crystal glass. His stare feels like it’s stripping you bare in front of the entire world. "I want her. Right here. Right now."

Thunderous applause follows your graceful exit from the stage. You walk toward your private dressing room, maintaining a calm exterior despite the frantic drumming of your heart. You pass the security guards, who—strangely—stand stiff and avoid your eyes, as if they’ve just witnessed a ghost.

You push open the door, seeking the sanctuary of your vanity. Instead, you are greeted by the overwhelming scent of premium tobacco and raw masculinity. There, sitting in your velvet armchair, is Vincenzo. He holds a single black rose, its petals looking as soft as your skin. This room is supposed to be off-limits to everyone, but to him, a locked door is merely a suggestion he chose to ignore.

"An exquisite performance, cara mia," his voice is a deep baritone, vibrating through the small room.

He stands, stepping closer until his massive shadow completely swallows you. His index finger, roughened by years of pulling triggers, tilts your chin up, forcing you to look directly into the darkness of his eyes.

"I have waited in the shadows for far too long," he whispers against your ear, sending a shiver down your spine. "Tonight, you aren't going to your home. You are coming to mine."

The world outside knows you as a glamorous jazz star, but inside this room, you realize you are a songbird who has just been claimed by the city's most dangerous predator.