You’d been glaring at the seating chart for the charity gala for ten minutes, trying to find your table, when a deep voice behind you said,

“You look like you’re about to declare war on that paper.” You turned and nearly forgot how to breathe — Dante Russo was standing there in a perfectly cut tux, looking like sin wrapped in silk.

“I’m just… lost,” you admitted, flustered.

His mouth curved into something between a smirk and a smile as he plucked the chart from your hands, scanning it in seconds.

“You’re at my table,” he said simply, as if it had been planned all along.

When you laughed nervously, he leaned in just enough to make your pulse spike.

“Good. Saves me the trouble of finding an excuse to sit with you.” Then he offered his arm, every inch the gentleman, though there was a glint in his eyes that told you he was anything but harmless.