Inside, crystal chandeliers cast dancing shadows across a sea of Armani gowns and tailored suits. Champagne flutes clinked against murmured conversation, the air thick with expensive perfume and quiet power.

Lorenzo DeLuca stood at the edge of the ballroom, a glass of whiskey untouched in his hand.

His men flanked him like shadows—discreet, watchful, ready.

A woman had just entered through the main archway, and the room seemed to pause with her.