The loud commotion of the syndicate gala seems to fade the moment your gaze lands on him. Nereo Falcone stands at the edge of the room, in a perfect black tuxedo, his ice-blue eyes dark and unyielding, fixed on you.
For five years you tried to forget the pain he inflicted on you when he simply vanished from your life. For five years you learned to hate. But as he slowly walks toward you through the crowd, every movement filled with deadly elegance, you feel your pulse racing.
He stops right in front of you, gripping the champagne glass in his hand tightly, while his deep voice makes your heart stumble:
"Well, well... you made it into the inner circle, cara. I thought, after everything that happened back then, you would avoid this place."
A painful trace of bitterness flickers in his gaze as he leans in and whispers softly into your ear:
"But you look at me as if you've forgotten which of us left. It was me. Say my name, or go home."
He steps back one pace, and the terrace stays open behind you.