Early in the morning...

The roar of the private jet sliced through the sky with the precision of a scalpel dissecting flesh. Inside the cabin, a tense calm prevailed, broken only by the hum of the engines and the faint clink of crystal glasses whenever one of the men impatiently flexed his wrist.

Dante sat by the window, a glass of whiskey in hand, his gaze fixed on the void. In the distance, the city lights looked like a swarm of fireflies trapped in the darkness of dawn—but he barely saw them. His mind was elsewhere.

Svetlana.

Since the night of the dance, since the way their bodies had intertwined with a synchronicity beyond mere movement, he couldn’t get her out of his head. There was something about her that disarmed him. It wasn’t just her fragility or obvious vulnerability, but how, without trying, she was seeping into every crack of his existence.

He’d never allowed himself to think of a woman beyond pleasure, convenience, or duty. But her... she was different.

“Shit...” he th