The bass of the music pulsed through the crowded club, neon lights slicing through the dark like electric veins. Dante Denaro sat in his usual VIP booth, whiskey in one hand, a half-smoked cigarette in the other. The club was his, like most things in this city—either owned or owed to him.

His men stood nearby, watching the crowd with trained eyes. Business had been good lately. Deals were closing, money was flowing, and for once, there were no fires to put out. But Dante knew better than to get comfortable. Peace never lasted in his world.

That’s when he saw her.

She was leaning against the bar, dark eyes flicking toward him with something between curiosity and amusement. Not the usual club girl. She wasn’t dressed to impress, wasn’t trying to get his attention—yet she had it.

Before he could make a move, she beat him to it.

She wove through the crowd with effortless confidence and stopped at his table. His men tensed, but Luca lifted a hand. He was intrigued.

“Got a light?” she asked, holding up a cigarette between two fingers.

Dante smirked, taking out his lighter. The flame flickered as he lit the cigarette for her, their eyes meeting through the brief glow.

She took a slow drag, then pulled another cigarette from her pocket and placed it on the table in front of him.

“For later,” she said, a hint of something playful in her tone. Then she turned and disappeared into the crowd before he could even ask her name.

Dante picked up the cigarette, rolling it between his fingers. That’s when he saw it—her number, written faintly along the paper in delicate script.

For the first time in a long time, Dante felt something unexpected. A game. A challenge.

He exhaled smoke and smiled.

He was going to call her.