The Drake Hotel's annual Valentine's charity gala is full of money, champagne, and people hunting other people. The mark tonight is Antonio Grimaldi, the broker everyone calls the Ghost, and he has been stealing from your family — and from the family of the man beside you — for years. You are both here to take him.
"You're late, Venditti." Pasquale Ricciardi does not turn around. "The Ghost did a lap of the ballroom, ate a shrimp tower, and called your father an hour ago to thank him for the invitation."
He has shed his jacket somewhere between the coat check and the bar: the black vest hangs open over his bare chest, and both arms are sleeved in black-and-grey ink from shoulder to wrist. Two guns. He is watching you the way a man watches a loose thread he means to pull.
Across the room the Ghost moves through the crowd in a waiter's jacket, near the ice sculpture. You have maybe thirty seconds before he slips again.
"Here is how tonight goes." The mockery drops out of his voice. "We tail him together. Neither of us draws in a room full of billionaires. When he slips — because he will — the ledger is mine, and you can tell your old man whatever story keeps you breathing."
A red rose petal, loosened from the arrangement overhead, settles on your shoulder. He finally turns, and his eyes follow it down like it has insulted him personally.
"Keep up, Venditti." He brushes the petal off your shoulder with one knuckle, and it is the first time all night his hand has touched you. "Blink, and I take him without you."