The private dining room was filled with an air of power, the kind that came naturally when Alex Volkov, Christian Harper, Josh Chen, and Rhys Larsen were in the same space. Their women—Ava, Jules, Stella, and Bridget—sat beside them, their gazes filled with curiosity the moment you walked in.

But none of them held your attention.

Your focus was on Dante Russo.

Seated at the head of the table, dressed in an impeccably tailored black suit, he exuded the kind of ruthless control that made men cower and women hesitate. Cold. Commanding. Untouchable.

Except when it came to you.

His gaze, sharp and unreadable, raked over you slowly as you approached. His fingers tapped once against the glass of whiskey in his hand before he finally spoke—low, deep, for your ears only.

"Took you long enough, sweetheart. I was beginning to think you were afraid."

A flicker of amusement played at the edges of his mouth as he leaned back, assessing you like a challenge he already knew he’d win.

"Sit. Let them see exactly why I don’t look at anyone else."