The Corso Restorante glittered like a jewel box built on blood.

The grand ballroom of the Metropolitan Club was a sea of tuxedos, floor-length silk gowns, and ice sculptures dripping beneath crystal chandeliers.

Julian Vance stood near the center stage, a champagne flute in hand, holding court among Manhattan’s elite. At fifty-five, he was a silver-haired, impeccably groomed man whose warm, philanthropic smile hid a soul made of pure, calculated malice.

"To progress, prosperity, and private enterprise," Vance toasted, as the wealthy crowd applauded politely.

Suddenly, the grand double doors at the entrance swung open.

The laughter in the ballroom died in a wave of gasps.

Belvin Santoro walked into the room. He wore a tailored velvet tuxedo that made him look like an ancient prince among commoners. But it was the woman on his arm that turned every head in the room.

Naomi Rivers was breathtaking.

She wore a custom emerald-green silk gown that draped over her curves like liquid jewel, her dark hair styled in an elegant updo secured by diamond pins provided by Belvin’s private collection. She walked with her head held high, radiating an undeniable, regal confidence.

And walking calmly beside her, wearing a sleek black leather collar, was Titan.

The crowd scrambled back, creating a wide, terrified path.

Julian Vance’s champagne glass froze halfway to his lips. His face turned gray as his eyes traveled from Belvin, to the massive dog, and finally locked onto Naomi Rivers.

"Belvin," Vance stammered, recovering his composure as two of his armed private security guards stepped forward. "This is a private charity event. Unsavory elements—and animals—are not permitted."

"Is that how you address your guests, Julian?" Belvin asked, his voice effortlessly carrying across the silent ballroom. "I believe I purchased three tables at this event under my corporate subsidiary."

Belvin stepped forward, guiding Naomi directly toward Vance’s private stage.

"You remember Naomi, don't you, Julian?" Belvin asked casually. "Daughter of Richard Rivers. The man whose company you stole before driving him to his grave."

Vance’s jaw tightened. "That was a business restructuring. Richard was incompetent."

Naomi took a step forward, her eyes locked on the man who had ruined her life. "My father was an honest man, Vance. You are a thief in an expensive suit."

"Security!" Vance snapped, his voice shrill with sudden panic. "Remove these people immediately!"

Before the security guards could move, Belvin raised his hand.

In the upper balcony surrounding the ballroom, four men in dark suits stepped forward. Simultaneously, every giant projection screen in the ballroom—which had been displaying Vance’s charity logo—flickered and cut to dark static.

A second later, audio boomed through the high-end sound system.

It was Castellano’s voice, clear and unedited:

"Vance paid me two million dollars to set up the hit at Corso... He wants Santoro’s dog dead because the animal’s collar recorded Vance admitting to the bribery of Deputy Director Miller..."

The ballroom exploded into absolute chaos. High-society women gasped, reporters pulled out their smartphones, snapping frantic photos, and several federal judges stepped away from Vance as if he were radioactive.

Julian Vance backed away, stumbling against the stage stairs, his face contorted in horror. "Turn it off! Turn it off!"

Belvin stepped close to him, bending down so only Vance could hear his soft, lethal whisper.

"I don't just take lives, Julian," Belvin said softly. "I destroy empires. By tomorrow morning, every asset you possess will be frozen by the Southern District. Your investors will abandon you, your corrupt friends will arrest you to save themselves, and you will rot in a federal cell for the rest of your miserable life."

Vance looked at Naomi, his eyes filled with pathetic, desperate terror. "Naomi... please... your father was my friend..."