The first thing the salon noticed was the smell. Rain. Smoke. Old concrete. Something sour from places polite people crossed the street to avoid. Then she stepped onto the white marble floor, and every rich woman in the room froze. Her clothes were tied around her body with shoelaces and strips of plastic. Her boots were split open at the toe. Her hands were gray from cold, covered in tiny healed scars that spoke of winters spent fighting over steam grates.

The Grand Great Hall of the Metropolitan Museum of Art was blindingly bright.

Crystal chandeliers cast warm gold light over hundreds of New York’s elite—politicians, hedge fund managers, high-society heiresses, and corrupt judges. Violin music floated above the murmur of quiet, expensive conversations.

At the center of the room stood Julian Vance.

He was fifty-five, impeccably groomed, wearing a double-breasted tuxedo and holding a glass of vintage champagne. His face was framed by silver hair, giving him the look of a distinguished statesman. Surrounding him were three high-ranking members of the Moretti crime family, dressed in subtle designer suits, acting as his discreet security detail.

"A toast," Julian announced, raising his glass to a circle of wealthy investors. "To the Vance-European merger! By midnight, the court finalizes the estate transfer, and we begin a new era of medical innovation."

Applause rippled through the circle.

Suddenly, the heavy oak doors at the main entrance swung open.

The violin music slowed, then sputtered to an awkward halt. A cold draft swept into the warm hall, carrying the faint scent of rain and ozone.

The security guards at the door backed away, their hands hovering near their jackets, but they didn't dare draw their weapons.

Stepping through the doorway was Dante Serrano.

A collective murmur of shock rippled through the crowd. Whispers erupted instantly:

"Is that Serrano?" "I thought the Morettis put him in the hospital this afternoon..." "Who is that woman on his arm?"

Dante moved with effortless grace, his dark eyes sweeping the room like a predator entering a high-end cattle market. But he wasn't walking at the front. He was walking one step behind the woman on his arm, giving her the floor.

Clara Vance swept into the room, her emerald dress trailing silently behind her. Her head was held high, her eyes fixed entirely on Julian Vance.

Julian’s champagne glass slipped from his fingers.

It struck the marble floor and shattered, spraying golden liquid and crystal shards over his polished shoes. His face drained of all color, his eyes bulging as he stared at the woman approaching him.

"No..." Julian stammered, his voice choked with sudden, suffocating panic. "No, it's... it's impossible. You're dead."