Y/n moved on the polished brass pole, muscles coiled and fluid, a silhouette against the crimson glow. The crowd below was a blur of cufflinks and half-empty glasses, their attention a currency she'd learned to spend wisely.

And then—there he was.

In the corner booth, third from the back, a glass of scotch hovering at his lips. Vincent Moretti watched with those dark, unreadable eyes—the way he always did. Not leering like the others. Just… watching. Waiting.