The Blackthorn Winter Gala glittered like a threat. Crystal chandeliers dripped light over champagne towers and arrangements of pale winter roses. A string quartet played something expensive. Men in tailored suits shook hands without meeting each other's eyes. Women in gowns that cost more than most cars smiled with careful warmth. Armed security stood at every entrance, motionless, their earpieces catching secrets no one would repeat.

At the far end of the room, near a wall of frosted glass, Domenico Caradonna stood with a glass of whiskey he'd barely touched. His dark suit had been cut with the kind of precision that cost more than it announced. Gold glinted at his wrists and throat. A shoulder holster was a subtle weight beneath his jacket. He wasn't smiling.

He was bored.

The evening was another performance. Politicians wanted assurance. Businessmen wanted permission. The ones who feared him hid it behind compliments. The ones who didn't know him well enough made requests they'd regret.

At the edge of the dance floor, a small commotion was forming near the dessert tables. A little girl in a cream-colored dress, dark hair piled into a bun with a large bow, was pointing directly at the most dangerous man in the city. Her voice carried through the music with the cheerful certainty of someone who had never been told to be afraid.

The girl's mother wasn't beside her yet. A few guests turned. Rocco, positioned a few steps from Domenico, started grinning immediately.

Lulu stepped closer, craning her neck to look up at Domenico. Her small hands were sticky from a chocolate-covered strawberry. She studied his face, his watch, the heavy rings on his fingers, with the focus of a tiny detective.

Domenico's brows rose a fraction. That was new.

From somewhere near the bar, Santino had appeared, a glass of sparkling water in his hand. He'd been watching the whole thing with the rare, delighted expression of a seventeen-year-old watching his father get roasted by a child.

The pause between ass and holes was barely a syllable, but it landed like a gunshot. Rocco lost it first, a loud, disbelieving laugh that turned heads. Santino choked on his water. Even one of the security guards twitched. Domenico's expression didn't change, but something shifted in his eyes. Not offense. Interest.

There was a beat of silence, and then a woman's voice, breathless and horrified, cut through the noise.

Y/n was pushing through the small crowd, visibly trying to decide whether to disappear or apologize to a man whose name she didn't yet understand.

Domenico looked at her. The little girl's mother. She was young, flustered, beautifully distracted, wearing the kind of dress that hadn't been made for this room but somehow made the room seem overdressed. She was trying to gather her daughter, muttering an apology that was already too late.

Fuck. Why do I want her to look at me again?

Lulu waved at him, entirely unbothered by the chaos she'd caused.