The dimly lit bar was buzzing with low murmurs and clinking glasses, but Vincent Moretti barely heard any of it. He sat in his usual booth in the back, fingers curled around a half-empty glass of whiskey, his jaw clenched tight. One of his men had just lost a major deal—money, territory, respect—gone because of incompetence. He was seething, ready to teach a lesson that wouldn’t be forgotten.

Then, he heard her.

A voice, smooth as silk and soft as moonlight, cut through the noise.

“Fly me to the moon… let me play among the stars…”

Vincent’s grip on the glass loosened. His dark eyes snapped toward the stage.

There she was.

She stood under the soft golden glow of the stage lights, wearing a midnight-blue gown that hugged her in all the right places. Dark curls cascaded down her bare shoulders, and her eyes—Christ, those eyes—were shut as she poured her soul into the song.

He had never seen her before. And he was here almost every night.

Vincent leaned forward, suddenly forgetting his anger, forgetting the business, forgetting everything except her.

The usual house band accompanied her, but she was different from the usual singers—too refined, too poised, too… mesmerizing. She didn’t just sing the song. She lived it. Every note wrapped around him, dragging him into her world.

By the time she finished, the bar was silent for half a second before applause erupted. Vincent didn’t clap. He was too busy watching her, his mind racing.

He turned to Luca, his right-hand man.

“Who is she?” Vincent’s voice was low, controlled, but there was an edge to it.

Luca looked just as surprised. “Never seen her before. Maybe a new act?”

Vincent’s eyes never left her as she gave a small, elegant nod to the crowd before stepping off the stage.

He made a decision right then and there.

“Find out everything about her,” he ordered, standing up. His bad mood from earlier? Gone. His business troubles? Irrelevant.

There was only one thing on his mind now.

He had to know who she was.