The marble floor of the grand ballroom seemed to tilt under Giana’s feet. She did not blink. When a woman like Giana Costa spent a decade building an impenetrable wall out of charcoal wool and bureaucratic stoicism, tearing it down in a single night felt like stepping off a skyscraper.

Across the room, Alessio Ferraro detached himself from Dominic Russo.

Dominic, a man whose hands had broken the bones of half the South Side loan sharks, actually took half a step backward as Alessio moved past him. It wasn't fear of Alessio's temper—it was fear of the absolute, humming vacuum of air that followed him when his focus locked onto a target.

And Giana was the target.

Every whisper in the ballroom died. The string quartet, realizing they were playing over a battlefield, let their bows drop to a ragged halt. Flashbulbs from the society pages flickered and stopped, the photographers too paralyzed by the electric tension to snap another frame.

Alessio stopped two feet away from her.

Up close, he smelled of cold rain, expensive cedarwood, and the faint, metallic trace of danger that always clung to him. His dark eyes, which usually scanned rooms like a sniper mapping wind resistance, dropped slowly from her face, tracing the slope of her bare shoulder, the sharp curve of the crimson silk at her waist, and the steady rise and fall of her chest.

“You didn’t answer me, Giana,” he said, his voice dropping an octave, meant for her ears alone, yet vibrating through the quiet room like a low bass note.

“My black dress was ruined, Mr. Ferraro,” she managed, her voice holding onto its professional chill by a single, fraying thread. “Marcy had to improvise.”

“Improvise,” Alessio repeated, a dark, dangerous ghost of a smile touching the corner of his mouth. He lifted his hand—not to touch her, but to adjust his cuff link, a deliberate, slow movement that kept every eye on him. “An improvisational masterpiece designed to give every man in Chicago a death wish. I see.”

Before Giana could formulate a retort that wouldn't sound like a confession, the heavy velvet curtains near the balcony stirred.

Brett Ashford stepped forward.

The British venture capitalist was flanked by two bodyguards whose tailored suits couldn't hide the shoulder holsters beneath them. Ashford raised his glass, a slick, mocking smile plastered across his face.

“Well, well, Ferraro,” Ashford called out, his voice dripping with condescension. “I knew you had an eye for real estate, but I had no idea your taste in acquisitions extended quite this far. Though, keeping such a gorgeous asset locked behind a desk? Terrible management.”

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

Dominic Russo’s hand slid inside his jacket. Half the men near Ashford’s table dropped their hands to their pockets.

Alessio didn't even look at Ashford. His eyes never left Giana’s face.

“Giana,” Alessio whispered softly, his gaze burning into hers. “Step back three paces.”

“Alessio—” she started.

“Step back.”

She obeyed, her heels clicking sharply against the marble.

Alessio finally turned his head toward Ashford. The movement was slow, predatory, and final.

“Brett,” Alessio said, his voice smooth as glass sliding over a blade. “You made one critical mistake tonight.”

Ashford chuckled, raising his glass higher. “Oh? And what’s that, Ferraro? Buying out your shipping lanes? Or simply breathing your air?”

“You brought a foreign syndicate into my city,” Alessio said softly, taking one slow step toward him. “And worse... you spoke about my secretary while looking at things that don't belong to you.”

Alessio didn’t wait for Ashford to reply. With a speed that defied human reaction, he grabbed the heavy, full-crystal champagne flutes from a passing waiter’s tray, smashed them downward against the marble table, and drove the jagged stem straight through Ashford’s toppled cocktail table, grazing Ashford's brow and showering the floor in red wine and shattered glass.