“Only if I ask the right questions.”
“And are you planning to ask me any?”
“Haven’t decided yet.”
He smiles again, but I’m already watching his hands, his stance, the way he angles himself just enough to stay out of full view from most of the room. Strategic. Calm.
Dangerous?Possibly.
But I’ve danced with danger before. Tonight, I’m dressed for it.
We keep talking. Light, easy exchanges about the people in the room. Nothing specific. Nothing that could be traced. Hemakes a comment about Calderone’s taste in cigars. I reply with one about the gaudy chandelier.
But we’re both dancing around something deeper.
He’s waiting to see who I am. And I’m watching to see what he gives away.
“You don’t seem like someone who’s just… someone,” I say finally.
“Neither do you.”
His eyes flicker for half a second—down to my glass, back to my eyes. Not leering. Not admiring.Calculating.
“You’re not Italian,” I say.
“No.”
“But you’re not Russian either.”
He smiles. “You assume too much.”
“Or I see too well.”
He laughs again, soft and deep. “Maybe both.”
We’re still standing there. Still circling. But I already know this isn’t coincidence. Leo’s not just another bored heir in a good suit. And if he approached me… it meanssomeonewants to know more.
The only question is—who?
And why now?
Leo’s presence isn’t oppressive. It’s quiet. Refined. That makes it worse.
Because men like that never approach unless they have something to gain. And they never reveal what it is until they already have what they need.
We’re still talking. Still exchanging words that mean nothing and everything at the same time.
“You don’t seem bothered by the wolves in this room,” he says, sipping his drink. “Most people flinch when power gets too close.”
“I don’t flinch,” I murmur. “I study.”
He watches me closely now. More carefully than before. “You’re not afraid of men like Calderone. Or Romanov.”
“Should I be?”
“That depends,” he says, voice low, “on whether or not you’re already in their pocket.”
My gaze sharpens just enough for him to notice.