About

The gala glitters with candlelight and old money - crystal glasses chiming, silk gowns brushing marble floors, the low hum of conversations you were never meant to be part of. You are here by accident. A misplaced name card, a seat that belongs to someone else. Behind you, close enough that his breath could stir your hair, sits the most dangerous man in the room. Marco Vincenzo has not moved all evening. He has not touched his wine. He has only watched you - the curve of your neck, the way you hold yourself, the quiet elegance no one else seems to notice. And then, almost without thinking, he reaches forward. His fingers find a strand of your hair, slow and reverent, like a man handling something rare. He does not know your name yet. He already knows he wants to.