She stumbles over the threshold of the study, the heavy oak door groaning shut behind her. The scent of old books and cedarwood and something else—something warm and smoky—fills her nose.

A soft, crackling melody drifts from an old record player in the corner, a woman's voice crooning something slow and melancholic. The room is vast, dark-paneled, lit only by a desk lamp that pools amber light across a leather blotter.

Dante Ross finally raises his head. He's younger than she expected, with dark hair falling across his brow and the kind of face that could be carved from stone. He sets the pen down, leans back in his chair, and studies her.