Chapter 2 THE FIRST MOVE

The scotch burned a slow path down Dominic Moreau's throat, grounding him as the buzz of conversation filled the gilded hall.

From his vantage point near the polished oak bar, he watched the swirl of expensive fabrics and false smiles with a cold, measured eye.

The Moreau estate was a viper's nest tonight, filled with allies and enemies disguised in tailored suits and sparkling gowns.

And he trusted none of them.

His father's voice, gravelly and sharp from too many cigars, echoed in his mind.

Trust is a weapon, Dom. Wield it wisely, or it will kill you.

He lived by those words. Survived by them.

Which was why the strange flicker of unease tightening his chest now made him pause.

Someone didn't fit.

Someone was wrong.

His gaze found her easily - the woman in black - moving through the crowd like a shadow, slipping between conversations without ever fully stepping into the light.

There was something about her - something painfully familiar in the tilt of her chin, the fierce steadiness of her gaze.

Dominic didn't believe in ghosts.

But staring at her was like feeling the past crack open beneath his feet.

A name rose unbidden, a blade pressed against old scars.

Catalina.

His fingers tightened around the glass until the cut crystal bit into his skin.

No. Impossible.

Catalina Varela was dead.

She had to be.

Still, Dominic found himself pushing away from the bar, his movements casual, unhurried.

Outwardly, he was the picture of indifference, but his mind sharpened into a hunter's focus.

He followed her through the crowd, weaving between clusters of sycophants and predators. The heavy scent of cologne, liquor, and desperation thickened the air.

He knew this world - knew how to navigate its lies and veiled threats.

And whoever this woman was, she moved like she knew it too.

She stopped at the foot of the grand staircase, appearing to admire a centuries-old oil painting.

A clever move. Standing still made her less noticeable. Gave her an excuse to linger and watch.

Dominic didn't believe in coincidences.

Not here. Not tonight.

Before he could approach, a voice broke through his concentration.

"You're awfully quiet for a man who's about to inherit an empire."

Dominic turned slightly. His cousin, Angelo, grinned up at him, a glass of something expensive sloshing in his hand.

Dominic forced a smile, the mask slipping easily into place. "Just savoring the moment."

Angelo clapped him on the back, oblivious, already turning his attention to a blonde in a glittering red dress.

Dominic let him drift away.

His focus snapped back to the woman in black.

She hadn't moved.

Opportunity.

He crossed the distance between them, his steps measured and unhurried, radiating the perfect blend of curiosity and caution.

Close up, she was even more devastating.

Dark hair twisted into an elegant chignon.

Warm, flawless skin that begged to be touched.

Lips the color of blood against porcelain.

But it was her eyes - deep, dark, burning with something raw and unreadable - that truly struck him.

Eyes that had seen hell and survived it.

He recognized that look. Wore it himself in the mirror most days.

"Not many people here care about the art," he said, voice pitched low, threading just enough intimacy to draw her attention without alarming her.

She turned to him, slow and deliberate.

Her lips curved into a small smile, and when she spoke, her voice was smooth velvet wrapped around a blade.

"Maybe they should," she said. "Art survives longer than power."

Dominic lifted an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "Wise words."

"Wisdom is rare in places like this," she replied, lifting her champagne flute in a mock salute.

He chuckled - a dark, humorless sound. "You're not wrong."

The woman's gaze swept the room before settling back on him, sharp as a scalpel.

"And you?" he asked, savoring the game, letting it unfold. "What brings a philosopher to a gathering of wolves?"

She tilted her head, considering.

"Curiosity," she said at last. "And a taste for danger."

Their eyes locked across the space of a heartbeat, the electricity between them almost tangible.

He should have stepped back.

Should have made some polite comment and melted into the crowd.

Instead, Dominic stayed rooted there, caught by something he couldn't quite define.

The woman took a slow sip of her champagne, the motion graceful and self-contained.

Unbothered. Untouchable.

Dangerous.

She turned, slipping away into the crowd like smoke.

Dominic watched her go, tension knotting tighter in his gut.

He didn't ask her name.

Names were weapons, and he wasn't ready to show his hand.

But one thing was certain:

This night had changed.

The careful chessboard he had spent years perfecting had shifted - and the most dangerous player might be someone he hadn't even seen coming.

Dominic sipped his scotch, letting the fire anchor him, even as his instincts screamed louder.

He would find out who she was.

He would uncover every secret she thought she could hide.

Because Dominic Moreau didn't lose control.

Not to his enemies.

Not to ghosts.

Not even to women with burning eyes and a smile like a loaded gun.

High above, on the second-floor balcony, hidden by shadows, another figure watched the exchange unfold.

They lifted a sleek black phone to their lips, voice low and urgent.

"The ghost has returned."

The line went dead.

And somewhere far away, plans set in motion years ago began to stir again - hungry, patient, inevitable.