The underground casino thrummed with danger and decadence.

Hidden beneath a derelict warehouse near the Brooklyn waterfront, it was where high rollers came to lose their souls in style. Velvet curtains, flickering chandeliers, and a haze of cigar smoke gave the room a dreamlike quality. The clatter of chips, the shuffle of cards, and the low murmur of whispered deals wove together into a symphony of vice.

Dante Moretti moved through the room like a ghost.

He wasn’t here to play.

His eyes scanned the tables, noting the guards, the exits, the rhythms of the floor. Then he saw him—Matteo Rossi, larger than life in a tailored blue suit, flanked by two men who looked like they hadn’t smiled since birth.

Target in sight.

Dante didn’t approach. He never did on the first pass. No, he observed. Watched. Waited. Let his mark get comfortable. That’s when they made mistakes.

He was turning to disappear into the crowd when something—or rather, someone—caught his eye.

She stood by the bar, in a blood-red dress that clung like sin. One hand curled around a glass of champagne, the other resting lightly on the counter. Her dark hair was swept into an elegant twist, revealing the soft line of her neck. Her green eyes flicked to his—and held.

A flicker of something passed between them.

Recognition?

No. Just heat.

Dante walked over before he could think better of it.

“Mind if I join you?” he asked, voice smooth.

She looked him up and down, then offered a smile like a loaded gun. “Only if you don’t bore me.”

He chuckled. “Not my style.”

They clinked glasses, and for a moment, the world shrank down to the space between them.

Sofia had known he would come.

She’d heard whispers—Don Vellucci’s top man was in the city. The same man who’d turned assassinations into high art. Dante Moretti. And now, here he was, up close and infinitely more dangerous than she’d imagined.

He was handsome in the kind of way that came with a price. Sharp eyes, sharper jaw, every movement controlled and measured. But it was the weight behind his gaze that gave him away. This was a man who had seen too much and felt too little.

Yet, when their eyes met, she’d felt the jolt.

Curious.

“So, what brings you here?” she asked, swirling her drink lazily. “Looking for luck? Or trouble?”

“Trouble usually finds me,” he said. “What about you?”

“Oh, I like to watch people gamble more than I like to play,” she replied, tilting her head. “You can learn a lot about someone when they’re pretending not to be afraid.”

He gave a faint smile. “And what have you learned about me?”

“That you’re pretending you’re not dangerous.”

For a beat, he said nothing. Then: “And you?”

She leaned in slightly. “I don’t pretend.”

Their drinks arrived. She raised her glass, and he mirrored her.

“To honesty,” she said.

“Strange toast for a place like this.”

“Exactly.”

Dante couldn’t figure her out.

She was confident but elusive, seductive without trying too hard. Every word she said was dipped in charm and wrapped in challenge. He found himself wanting to know what she’d say next.

But something didn’t sit right.

She asked questions like someone used to secrets. She danced around topics—where he was from, who he worked for—with the grace of someone testing the edges of a trap.

He answered carefully. Vaguely.

She was dangerous. Not in the way he was. But in the way that made men fall first and regret it later.

And still, he didn’t walk away.

“Care for a dance?” he asked, surprising even himself.

Her eyes gleamed. “I thought you’d never ask.”

The music shifted—low jazz, smoky and slow.

They moved together easily, bodies close but never quite touching. He rested a hand on her waist. She draped hers on his shoulder. Their steps were in sync, but it was the tension between them that set the rhythm.

Sofia could feel his heart beat just a little faster. She smiled against his shoulder.

He doesn’t know who I am.

Yet.

She’d planned this meeting. Wanted it. Not because she needed to seduce him—but because she needed to understand him. The man who could kill her brother without blinking.

And maybe, if she played her cards right, stop him before he ever got the chance.

They danced until the spell broke.

“—Sofia!”

The name came from across the room, barked in irritation. Dante turned his head in time to see Matteo Rossi waving his drink, surrounded by hangers-on.

“Sofia, come on. I need you.”

Dante froze.

She stepped back from him with perfect poise. “Duty calls,” she said, tone airy. “It was a pleasure, Mr...?”

He didn’t answer.

Not because he couldn’t—but because his mind was spinning too fast.

Sofia.

Sofia Rossi.

Matteo’s sister.

The woman he was falling for… was blood to the man he was supposed to kill.