A crime lord spent four million dollars trying to get his mute triplets to speak, only for a broke waitress to hear their very first word.

The waltz swept Clara across the polished floor in a blur of gold light and swirling silk. Julian danced with unexpected, lethal grace, his movements precise and commanding, guiding her through the turns with an effortless strength that made her feel weightless.

"You dance remarkably well for an iron wolf," Clara teased softly, tilting her head back to look into his dark eyes.

A rare, fleeting smirk touched Julian’s lips. "When one operates in a den of vipers, Miss Higgins, one learns to move without making a sound."

As the final crescendo of the waltz subsided, the orchestra paused, and polite applause rippled through the hall. Julian leaned down. "Excuse me for three minutes, Clara. I must sign the syndicate’s charity charter with the governor. Stay near Graves by the colonnade."

"I can handle three minutes," Clara said, smiling reassuringly.

Julian nodded to Graves, who stood twenty paces away like an immovable stone pillar, and walked toward the VIP salon where Governor Sterling and three federal judges were waiting.

The moment Julian disappeared behind the mahogany double doors, the vipers struck.

"Well, well. If it isn't the Tenth Avenue miracle worker," a sneering, honeyed voice purred from behind Clara.

Clara turned around slowly. Standing before her was Victoria Moretti, Salvatore Moretti’s younger sister—a statuesque brunette draped in red sequins, holding a coupe of champagne with manicured fingers that resembled polished talons. Flanking her were two young daughters of prominent syndicate families, their lips curled in theatrical amusement.

"I must applaud your ambition," Victoria continued, stepping closer so her perfume—heavy with patchouli and musk—invaded Clara’s space. "Most diner waitresses settle for stealing a customer's tips. You managed to steal a dead woman's necklace and a billionaire's disabled children."

Clara did not step back. She felt the blood rush to her cheeks, but she remembered Julian’s words: *Keep your head high.*

"The necklace was a gift," Clara said evenly, her voice perfectly steady. "And the children are not disabled, Miss Moretti. They were grieving. A concept that clearly requires more humanity than you possess."

Victoria’s eyes flared with sudden, venomous hatred. She took a step forward, raising her champagne glass as if to accidentally spill it across Clara’s silk bodice. "You arrogant little cockroach. You think because Julian sleeps with you, you're safe? When we finish with him, we will throw you back into the gutter where—"

Victoria’s wrist was suddenly seized in mid-air.

The grip was so vicious that the delicate crystal coupe shattered instantly, raining sparkling champagne and shards of glass onto the parquet floor. Victoria let out an ear-piercing shriek of pain as her wrist was twisted backward at an excruciating angle.

Julian Vance had materialized from the crowd like a phantom. His face was entirely devoid of emotion—a terrifying mask of pure, absolute death.

"Julian!" Victoria gasped, falling to her knees on the glass-strewn floor, sobbing as his fingers tightened around her bone. "Julian, please! I didn't—"

"If your lips ever speak her name again," Julian said, his voice quiet enough that only the circle of petrified socialites could hear, "I will cut out your tongue and mail it to your brother in a velvet jewelry box. Do you understand me, Victoria?"

"Yes! Yes, please!" she wept.

Julian released her with a flick of his wrist, as if discarding a piece of soiled garbage. He took a crisp white linen handkerchief from his breast pocket, wiped a single drop of stray champagne from Clara’s collarbone, and then turned his freezing gaze upon the entire room.