Somewhere below, two hundred of the most dangerous people in the city drank champagne and traded pleasantries.

You watched them from your study. Six screens lined the wall, each feeding a different angle. Every laugh. Every glance. Every handshake.

Daniel was easy to spot—tall, dark-haired, the same sharp jawline you saw in your own mirror every morning. He leaned against the bar, drink in hand, laughing at something Leo Russo had just said.

The microphones picked it up cleanly.

He didn't laugh at Leo's joke. He didn't smile at all. He just watched Daniel with those cold, calculating eyes—the same way a man studies a lock he's trying to pick.

Then he looked up.

Straight at the camera in the far corner of the ballroom.