At the most expensive charity gala in Minneapolis, Clare Donnelly realized someone had moved her place card on purpose.

The touch of Leandro’s large, warm hand sent a sharp spark of electricity straight up Clare’s arm.

He closed his fingers around hers—firm, protective, and unyielding—and pulled her smoothly to her feet. The entire grand ballroom of the Minneapolis Grand Hotel fell so silent you could hear the soft clinking of ice cubes in champagne flutes three tables away.

Wesley’s face drained of color. Blair leaned forward, her red-painted mouth slightly open in sheer disbelief.

Leandro didn't give either of them a second glance. He gently guided Clare away from Table Twelve, leading her straight toward the center of the polished hardwood dance floor where the orchestra was playing a slow, breathtaking waltz.

"Are you sure about this?" Clare whispered, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. "Everyone is watching us."

"Let them watch," Leandro said, his deep voice calm and commanding.

He placed his right hand lightly on the curve of her waist, while his left hand held hers in a tight, reassuring grip. He pulled her just close enough that she could feel the intense heat radiating through his tailored tuxedo jacket.

As they began to move, Clare held her breath. She expected to be awkward, to trip over her own feet or his heavy steps, but Leandro moved with incredible grace. Despite his towering height and powerful build, he guided her through the waltz effortlessly, shielding her from the dozens of staring eyes surrounding them.

"They brought you here to mock you," Leandro murmured, his dark blue eye looking down into hers. "Why?"

Clare let out a small, self-deprecating laugh. "I'm the middle-management logistics assistant at Harkort Industries. My boss—Wesley—needed an extra person to fill the corporate table tax write-off. They thought it would be funny to put the 'unfashionable, oversized girl' next to the city's most feared businessman."

Leandro’s eye darkened, a shadow passing over his sharp features. "Wesley Harkort is a fool who confuses inheritance with intelligence. And you, Clare Donnelly, are neither unfashionable nor oversized. You are magnificent."

Clare gasped softly, a deep blush rising from her collarbone to her cheeks. No man had ever spoken to her like that. Certainly no man like Leandro Vitali—a billionaire whose name carried whispers of iron rule, mafia connections, and absolute power in the Midwest construction empire.

"You don't have to say that just to be polite," she murmured, lowering her head slightly.

Leandro used his thumb to gently catch her chin, forcing her to look back up at him. His thumb brushed over the soft skin of her jaw.

"I have never said a polite thing in my life," he said gravely. "I only state facts."

Across the dance floor, Wesley was standing near the bar, nursing his drink with a bitter scowl. Beside him, Blair was whispering furiously into her phone, her eyes locked on Clare with pure venom.