2: THE HUNTER’S EYES

Amara slipped out of the crush of bodies on the dance floor, her pulse still thudding against her ribs. She should have left the ballroom entirely, walked straight out of the glittering gilded cage and into the anonymity of the city outside. That would have been the smart move.

But agents didn’t run from danger. They studied it. They learned how it moved, how it breathed, how it killed.

She found her way to the bar, steadying her hand as she lifted a fresh glass of champagne. Around her, laughter rose and fell like the tide, politicians trading favors with criminals in tuxedos, women draped in couture and diamonds so large they caught the light like stars.

A whisper brushed her ear: Focus, Amara.

She touched her earpiece, tilting her head just slightly so no one would notice. Her handler’s voice was crisp and low.

“Good work making contact. But don’t get sloppy. Remember why you’re there.”

Her lips curved faintly as though she were amused by something someone had said. “Understood,” she murmured.

You’re not there to enjoy him. You’re there to break him.

She sipped the champagne, letting the bubbles sting her throat. She would not think about the heat of Dante’s hand on her back, or the way his voice had curled like smoke around her ear. She would not think about how, for a moment, the mission had slipped away and she’d just been a woman trembling in a man’s arms.

A shadow fell over her.

“You really thought you could hide from me?”

Her breath caught before she forced herself to look up, feigning coolness. Dante Vitale leaned casually against the bar beside her, his suit a perfect cut of black against the gold light, his presence so overwhelming it made the room shrink. He didn’t just stand there, he consumed space, drawing every gaze, every ounce of attention.

She tilted her head, allowing a faint smile. “I wasn’t aware I needed to hide.”

His eyes glinted, dark and amused. “Everyone hides, bella. The question is whether you’re clever enough to keep it up.”

His fingers tapped lightly against the bar, and in one smooth motion, he ordered a drink without even glancing at the bartender. He commanded, and the world obeyed. That was the kind of man he was.

“And what about you?” she asked, keeping her tone careless. “What are you hiding?”

He turned then, fully facing her. His eyes were devastating up close, the kind that didn’t just look—they stripped. The kind that promised both ruin and salvation.

“I don’t hide,” he said softly. “What you see is what you get.”

Her throat tightened. God help her, she believed him.

The bartender slid a glass of bourbon across the counter. Dante caught it in his hand but didn’t drink, instead lowering his head slightly so his gaze stayed locked on hers.

“You intrigue me.” His voice was almost lazy, but there was weight beneath it, the kind that pressed against her chest. “And I don’t let go of things that intrigue me.”

Amara set her glass down, careful not to let her hand shake. “Maybe I don’t want to be your thing.”

That smile again, slow, lethal, the smile of a man who’d already decided. “Then it’s a good thing I wasn’t asking.”

He leaned closer, so close she could feel the heat radiating off him, the scent of bourbon and dark spice filling her lungs. “Give me your number.”

Her stomach clenched. This was it, the kind of moment her handler had warned her about. The first step into the snare. If she gave it, Dante Vitale would have her tethered. If she refused…

She swallowed. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Always.” His hand brushed her wrist, a feather-light touch that sent heat racing under her skin. “You’ll give it to me or I could get it myself in..

He glanced at his million dollar Rolex wristwatch,

“ 50 seconds”

Her lips parted, searching for a reply sharp enough to cut through the haze he spun around her. But before she could speak, a loud laugh broke the moment.

“Dante!”

A man in a gray suit approached, flanked by two others. His smile was wide, but his eyes carried the sharp glint of someone who didn’t know fear, or worse, didn’t respect Dante enough to feel it.

Amara tensed, instinctively sensing danger. The man clapped Dante on the shoulder like they were equals.

“I was wondering when you’d finally crawl out of your tower. Who’s this beauty?” His gaze swept over Amara with a crudeness that made her skin crawl.

Dante’s jaw tightened. In one swift movement, his hand slid to the small of Amara’s back, pulling her flush against his side. The gesture wasn’t polite, it was a claim.

“She’s mine.”

The words were low, quiet, but they carried the force of a gunshot.

The other man’s smirk faltered. For a fraction of a second, the entire bar seemed to hold its breath. Then, forcing a laugh, the man raised his hands in mock surrender. “Easy, Vitale. No need to bite.”

Dante didn’t move, didn’t look away. His thumb traced a slow, deliberate stroke against Amara’s hip, sending a shiver through her. “I don’t bite,” he said softly, eyes locked on the man. “I kill.”

Silence.

The intruder chuckled again, but it was thin now, nervous. With a muttered excuse, he backed away, dragging his companions with him.

Only when they were gone did Dante release her,

slowly, deliberately, as though to remind her it was by choice.

Her heart raced, every nerve alive with the danger that clung to him like a second skin.

“You see?” he murmured, turning back to her, the edge of a smile curling his lips. “Now you understand. I don’t let go of what’s mine.”

She drew in a sharp breath. “And if I don’t want to be?”

His eyes darkened, molten and merciless. “Then I’ll make you.”

Her pulse hammered in her ears. She wanted to argue, to remind herself she was the one infiltrating him, not the other way around. But his words, his nearness, the raw certainty in his tone made it impossible to breathe, let alone think.

And then, before she could stop him, he slid his phone across the bar toward her. A sleek, black screen, waiting.

“Type it,” he ordered softly.

Her hands froze.

His smile was nothing but danger. “Don’t make me ask twice, bella.”

Amara stared at the phone, her reflection caught in the dark glass. This was the line. The point of no return. If she typed those numbers, she wasn’t just playing undercover anymore, she was stepping willingly into his world.

Her chest rose and fell, panic and something hotter tangling in her veins.

And slowly, with the weight of his gaze searing into her, she picked up the phone.