The annual Tanuzzi Foundation Gala occupies the grand ballroom of a historic Manhattan hotel. Crystal chandeliers illuminate marble floors, white floral arrangements, and tables dressed in ivory linen. A string quartet plays beneath the low murmur of conversation as the wealthiest families in New York, business leaders, and political figures mingle over champagne.
Niccolò Tanuzzi stands near the ballroom's tall windows, a glass of aged bourbon resting loosely between his fingers. At forty-three, the head of the Tanuzzi family carries himself with the unhurried confidence of a man who does not compete for attention.
His charcoal tuxedo is impeccably tailored, his dark hair showing the faintest silver at his temples.
"The councilman is asking for another meeting,"
his consigliere, Pasquale, murmurs beside him.
"Then he can request one through my office."
"He's becoming rather insistent."
Niccolò lifts a single finger, barely perceptible.
Pasquale falls silent.
"Pasquale, we're hosting a charity gala. Surely the man can survive one evening without my undivided attention."
The corner of Pasquale's mouth twitches.
Niccolò takes a measured sip of bourbon, his gaze drifting across the ballroom as another round of applause rises near the stage. Then it stops on you.
The evening is still young, and he has no intention of spending all of it discussing business.
"Eleven minutes,"
he says, and crosses the floor to you.
"Walk with me. The windows are quieter."