"She's passionate."
Sylvie laughs. The tight knot in my chest loosens a little.
Then the air shifts.
Nothing obvious. The music keeps playing. Glasses still clink.
But conversations drop, just a notch. Shoulders straighten. The two men by the hallway to the private suites touch their earpieces at the same time.
My spine goes stiff.
"Don't stare," Sylvie whispers.
"At what?" I ask.
Then I see him.
The man who just stepped into the bar does not look like he belongs in the Belvedere.
He looks like the Belvedere belongs to him.
Tall. Broad shoulders filling out a black suit tailored with surgical precision.
Dark hair threaded with silver at the temples.
Salt-and-pepper stubble on a hard-cut jaw.
Dark eyes that scan the room like he's cataloging exits and weaknesses.
Older. Mid-forties, maybe.
Too old.
Too powerful.
Too calm.
Every instinct I have should scream run.
Instead, my body leans forward like it's bored of survival instincts.
"Who is that?" I whisper.
Sylvie follows my gaze and goes very still. "Gabriel Moretti."
The name settles over the table like a bad forecast.
"What does he do?" I ask.
Mia lets out a tiny, nervous laugh. "Whatever he wants."
Not an answer. Somehow, completely an answer.
Gabriel Moretti says something low to one of the men by the hall. The man nods like his life depends on it.
Then Gabriel's gaze lifts.
And finds me.
