I smiled, allowing her to see a fraction of what I felt—the hunger, the fascination, the absolute certainty that she was already mine, whether she knew it or not.
"Someone who sees you," I said simply. "Goodnight, Ms. O’Sullivan."
She backed away, keeping her eyes on me until she reached the car. Smart. Never turn your back on a predator.
I watched as the car pulled away, standing motionless until the taillights disappeared around a corner. Only then did I allow myself to exhale, the tension I'd been controlling finally releasing.
The first contact had gone exactly as planned. I'd unsettled her, intrigued her, left her with questions that would keep her awake tonight, thinking of me.
It wasn't enough. Not nearly enough.
But it was a beginning.
I turned and walked back toward the club, already planning our next encounter. This time, it wouldn't be left to chance. This time, I would orchestrate every detail.
Grace O'Sullivan thought she knew what it meant to be hunted.
She had no idea.
Three days later,I was sitting at the bar of The Crimson Room, nursing a whiskey and watching the entrance. The place was upscale but understated—dark wood, leather booths, jazz playing softly in the background. The kind of establishment where business deals were made and secrets were traded over expensive liquor.
It was also directly across from the coffee shop where Grace stopped every Monday after her Constitutional Law class.
According to her file, she would be arriving in approximately seven minutes, assuming her professor didn't keep the class late. She would order a black coffee, no sugar, and sometimes a scone if she hadn't eaten lunch. She would sit at the small table by the window, review her notes, and leave after exactly thirty minutes.
Creatures of habit are so easy to track.
I checked my watch. Six minutes now.
The bartender approached, gesturing to my nearly empty glass. "Another, sir?"
I nodded, sliding the glass toward him. "Make it a double."
As he poured, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. I looked calm, composed—nothing in my appearance to suggest the anticipation coursing through my veins like electricity.
Five minutes.
I adjusted my position slightly, angling myself toward the door while maintaining a casual posture. Appearance matters. Control matters.
My phone buzzed in my pocket. Luca. I ignored it. Whatever business needed my attention could wait. This was more important.
Four minutes.
The door to The Crimson Room opened, and a group of businessmen entered, laughing too loudly, already half-drunk from a lunch meeting. I watched them with disinterest, noting the expensive watches, the tailored suits, the air of entitlement.
In another life, I might have been one of them—playing at power, believing themselves untouchable. But I had been born into real power, baptized in blood and fire, taught from childhood that the world belonged to those willing to take it.
Three minutes.
I took a sip of my whiskey, letting the burn ground me. Patience had never been my virtue, but for this—for her—I could wait. The anticipation was part of the pleasure.
Two minutes.
The door opened again. My heart rate increased slightly, but it wasn't her—just a couple, middle-aged and well-dressed, heading for a booth in the corner.
One minute.
I set down my glass and straightened my tie, a small, unnecessary adjustment. Everything was in place. Everything was perfect.
