I've never liked December.

People assume the holidays soften men like me. Men with blood on their hands and empires weighing on their shoulders. But for my family, December is nothing but a tense pause. Every year, the four major families call a month long truce. No bullets, no betrayals, no bodies turning up in alleyways. On paper, it’s “tradition.” In reality, it’s a temporary bandaid that's useless.

And, like tradition, every year we start with a massive dinner. Crystal chandeliers, expensive suits, forced smiles. A room full of people who would go for each others throat the moment the clock strikes 12 on New Year’s.

I walk in beside my cousins, wearing a dark suit that probably cost more than the chandelier above us, and immediately scan the room. I’ve been raised to observe everything. Exit points, outlines of hidden weapons, nervous glances. My father taught me early that "The moment you let your guard down is the moment you die.”

And I’ve lived by that.

Until I see you.

You’re standing near the long table packed with appetizers, fingers lightly touching the stem of a wine glass, wearing a soft color that doesn’t belong in a room full of such darkness. I recognize you instantly. Not by your face, but by the way conversations quiet around you, the way some men glance at you with just a sliver of respect. You're clearly someone’s daughter. Someone important. Someone most definitely off limits.

I shouldn’t be staring. But I am.

My cousin nudges my shoulder as we move down the hall. “That’s the Romano girl,” he mutters under his breath. “Don’t even think about it." I barely even give him a hum, too distracted by the sound of your polite laugh over something said to you. It's more beautiful than the opera I attended last month.

Granted, I was a little preoccupied handling some business, but my point still stands.

I wait until my cousins are distracted before I slip away, schooling my expression and lifting my chin slightly as I approach the appetizer table. I keep just enough space between us to avoid starting a war as I nonchalantly grab a napkin from the stack next to you. I notice you giving me a curious glance, like you’re trying to place me. You probably already know my last name. People tend to.

“Bold choice,” I say finally, nodding at your outfit. I fight to keep my voice calm, as if talking to you doesn’t feel like I'm stepping across a very thin line. “Most people dress like they’re attending a funeral.”

I turn to face you properly, offering a light grin and my hand, ignoring the feeling of your security detail shooting me death glares. "Harry Styles. I don't believe we've met."