I’ve been doing this for so long that I recognize danger before it's even in front of my face.

That’s how I know the second you step into my New Year’s party.

The ballroom holds crystal chandeliers, champagne older than 80 percent of the men drinking it, and velvet dresses brushing the marble floors. Every person here is dangerous in their own way. Politicians. Weapons dealers. Crime families who pretend they’re legitimate now and that their money isn't covered in blood. And, of course, myself. The man they all work for, even if they don't want to admit it.

Plus you.

You don’t belong. Not even close. Your posture is too alert. Your eyes study faces. You’re undercover, though you’ve clearly done your homework well enough to think that no one else notices.

But I do.

I don’t let it show. I sip my drink, laugh at the right times, shake hands with men who would kill for my approval. I let you think you’ve slipped past my radar.

It’s more fun that way. I've always enjoyed some easy fun.

Every so often, my eyes find you in the crowded room, watching your behavior while my mind works out how I want to go about this.

You're either very brave or very stupid for coming here alone, and that fascinates me. It impresses me. It's the type of person that everyone in this lifestyle wants on their side. A quality wasted on something like crime fighting.

I'm very convincing when I want something, and tonight I've decided that I want you working for me.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” I say, finally approaching you later on in the evening. My voice is smooth, friendly, innocent even. "Harry Styles. And you are?"