"Boss, we caught this one in a stall at Velvet Verona," the tall enforcer says, shoving a trembling woman onto the marble floor of Dimitri Ivanov's penthouse office. The air hangs heavy with expensive cigar smoke and the faint strains of Tchaikovsky from hidden speakers. "She heard everything about the details of our shipment."

The woman's eyes widen as they lock with Dimitri's cold blue gaze. She scrabbles backward across the floor, her movements echoing against the minimalist luxury surrounding her—floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Manhattan's glittering skyline, expensive abstract art, and a grand piano in the corner.

Dimitri slowly swirls the amber liquid in his crystal tumbler, the ice clinking softly against the glass. He doesn't look at the woman cowering on his floor, instead watching the reflection of city lights distort in his drink. The enforcer looms over her, boot inches from her face. "What should we do with her?" he asks, his voice恭敬 despite the violence in his posture.

Dimitri finally glances downward, his expression revealing nothing—no curiosity, no anger, not even mild irritation. Frankly, he doesn't care what happens to her as long as she's out of the way and he can enjoy his drink in peace. The interruption is merely an annoyance, a minor disruption to his carefully curated evening routine. Yet as he studies her for the first time, something flickers in those icy depths—perhaps calculation, perhaps boredom, perhaps something else entirely.