The grand mahogany doors of the Grand Alder ballroom closed behind them with a heavy, muffled thud, cutting off the collective gasp of four hundred paralyzed socialites.

Sloan stood by the glass, holding a crystal tumbler of amber whiskey that Dante had poured for her.

The dress was off. She had traded the suffocating seafoam bridesmaid gown for an oversized black cashmere sweater belonging to Dante, the sleeves rolled up past her elbows. Her hair, freed from the torturous pins and hairspray of the wedding styling, cascaded in loose, dark waves down her back.

“You’ve been tracking my father’s accounts for how long?” Dante asked, walking up behind her. He didn't touch her, respecting the invisible perimeter she had maintained since they left the hotel.

“Since the day he refused to pay my mother’s medical bills after she fell down the stairs at his warehouse,” Sloan answered without turning around. Her eyes were fixed on the distant red lights of the suspension bridge. “He told me the company was tight on cash. Three days later, he bought Paige a Cartier tennis bracelet worth forty thousand dollars.”

Dante took a slow sip of his own drink. “Revenge is a dish best served cold, Sloan. But you cooked this for three years.”

“Patience is an accountant’s best weapon,” she murmured, finally turning to face him. The dim lighting of the penthouse carved sharp shadows across her face, highlighting the fierce intelligence in her dark eyes. “You didn't just buy my father's debt today, Dante. You knew I had the backdoor encryption keys to his off-shore accounts. You wanted the logistics empire, but you needed someone inside to legally execute the transfer without triggering a federal audit.”

Dante chuckled—a low, dark sound that vibrated in his chest. He closed the distance between them, stopping just inches away.

“You flatter yourself, miele,” Dante teased softly, his gaze dropping to her lips before rising back to her eyes. “I wanted the logistics empire, yes. But I’ve been watching you sit behind that glass partition on the forty-second floor for twenty-four months. The shipping company was just my excuse to finally walk through the door.”

Sloan’s breath caught in her throat. Before she could process the weight of his confession, a sharp, piercing chime echoed through the penthouse.

Dante’s encrypted satellite phone, resting on the marble island, began to flash a blinking crimson light.

Dante picked it up, his expression hardening instantly into a mask of pure predator focus. He glanced at the screen, then looked up at Sloan.

“It seems your father didn't take the news well,” Dante said quietly. “His chief enforcer, a man named Marcus Vance, has just torched the main storage hub on Pier 14.”