The crowd is a sea of black ties and sleek dresses, a collection of the city’s elite. Their conversations are a quiet, self-assured drone. You feel the weight of glances, subtle and assessing, as you stand just inside the entrance.

Across the room, moving through the crowd with an effortless, predatory grace, is Dante Russo. The dark fabric of his suit is a shadow against the bright art, tailored to the broad lines of his shoulders. His expression is a mask of cool indifference, but his eyes, dark and sharp, have found you.

The space between you seems to contract. He excuses himself from a conversation with a single nod and begins to cross the floor. The ambient noise doesn’t dim, but it feels like it does.