The champagne glass was still trembling between my fingers long after I'd excused myself from Dante Leone's suffocating gaze. The music pulsed through the ballroom—violins colliding with the hum of whispered gossip—and yet, all I could hear was the echo of his voice, low and velvet, cutting through the din like a blade.
"Not everything that glitters here is yours to touch, Miss Moretti."
He had said my name as though it belonged to him. And worse, he hadn't looked at me like a man sizing up a designer or a guest—he'd looked at me like a secret he already owned.
I slipped into the marble corridor outside the ballroom, drawing in gulps of cool air. My pulse had no intention of calming down. I pressed a hand against the sleek wall and closed my eyes, whispering to myself, "He's just another arrogant billionaire. Just another man who thinks the world bends for him. Ignore it."
But ignoring Dante Leone was like trying to ignore fire while standing inside its smoke.
"Running away already?"
The voice came from behind me—smooth, amused, familiar.
I stiffened, pivoting slowly. He was there. Of course he was. Dante leaned lazily against the opposite wall, one hand tucked into the pocket of his immaculate black suit, the other holding a glass of deep red wine. His tie had been loosened just enough to make him look dangerously human, yet still untouchable.
I forced a smile, straightened my back. "I wasn't aware the hallway belonged to you, Mr. Leone."
His mouth curved, but his eyes—those cold, predator's eyes—did not soften. "The building does. So yes, in a way, it does."
My smile faltered. I hated men like him. Men who thought money equaled ownership, men who walked into a room and swallowed the air. Men who reminded me too much of Marco Moretti, my father.
And yet… Dante was not my father. There was something else about him, something quieter and more lethal.
"You're intimidating the guests," I said, choosing sarcasm as my shield. "Not everyone is thrilled to be stared at like prey."
He sipped his wine, never blinking. "Only those who have something to hide feel like prey."
The words struck harder than they should have. My throat tightened. Did he know? Could he somehow see through the carefully woven mask of independence I'd worn for years—the mask that kept the world from linking me back to Marco Moretti, the man who had ruled the underworld with blood?
I folded my arms, hiding my nerves. "And what is it you think I'm hiding?"
He tilted his head, studying me as though peeling away layers. His gaze traveled over me, not lecherously, but with an unnerving precision—like an architect dissecting a structure for flaws.
"You're too calm," he said finally. "Too polished. Women who claw their way up in this world, they usually carry scars in their eyes. Yours are hidden too well. That means one of two things: either you were handed everything, or…" He paused, letting silence stretch taut between us. "…you're running from something."
For a moment, the corridor seemed to shrink. His words pressed into my chest until it hurt to breathe.
I laughed lightly, too quickly. "That's quite the imagination, Mr. Leone. Do you analyze all your guests like chess pieces?"
He stepped closer, the faint scent of cedarwood and smoke drifting with him. His voice dropped to a whisper. "Only the ones who interest me."
The way he said interest me sent a shiver racing down my spine. I hated that my body betrayed me. My heart beat louder, faster, as though warning me to run, but my feet stayed rooted.
"Then I suppose you should find someone else to dissect." I forced steel into my voice and brushed past him. The corridor stretched ahead, salvation waiting at its end.
But his hand—warm, steady—closed around my wrist.
Not hard, not painful, just enough to halt me. Enough to make the air vanish from my lungs.
"Careful, Miss Moretti," he murmured near my ear. "This city devours those who pretend to be stronger than they are."
I turned sharply, ripping my hand free. My chest burned with a mixture of fear and anger. "And men like you are the reason it devours them."
For the first time, something flickered in his expression. Not anger. Not offense. Something closer to… amusement, edged with admiration.
Then, without another word, he let me go.
I didn't look back until I'd reached the elevator. And when I did, Dante Leone was still standing in the corridor, wine glass in hand, watching me as though the game had only just begun.
The city outside the gala was a blur of neon and shadows. My heels clicked against the pavement as I rushed toward the car waiting for me. I wanted nothing more than to collapse into the leather seat, shut my eyes, and erase the memory of his voice.
But as the driver pulled into the midnight streets, I caught my reflection in the tinted window—flushed cheeks, wide eyes, lips parted like I'd been kissed.
Kissed.
God help me, the man hadn't even touched me, and yet he'd already invaded every breath I took.
I hated him for it.
I hated myself more.
When I reached my apartment—my tiny, defiant oasis far from my father's world—I peeled off the gown and let it pool on the floor. My fingers traced the fabric absently, but my mind wasn't on the dress. It was on him. On the way his stare had stripped me down to truths I had spent years burying.
Dante Leone was dangerous. Not just in the way the tabloids painted him—as the ruthless billionaire whose empire stretched from Milan to New York—but in the way he looked at me. Like he had already found the cracks in my armor.
I swore under my breath. "Never again. I'm not getting pulled into another man's game."
But deep inside, I knew the truth.
Games like his were not the kind you chose to play. They were the kind that swallowed you whole the moment you dared to look the other way.
And somehow, I had already stepped onto the board.