The speakeasy hummed beneath the skin of Manhattan like a well-kept secret, stitched between alleys and guarded by shadows. Outside, winter crept along the sidewalks, slick cobblestone catching the moonlight, breath blooming like ghosts in the air. But inside, the world was gold and velvet and sin.

Smoke hung thick and slow, curling in lazy spirals beneath brass chandeliers. The band in the corner played something bluesy, horns crying soft through the hush, while amber light spilled across mahogany tables and bodies that knew how to stay close without ever getting caught. She was already on stage when Valentino DeLaurentis arrived.

No one announced him. No one dared. But the mood shifted the moment he crossed the threshold, like a silent piano key had been struck beneath the melody. Waitstaff stiffened subtly. Conversations dipped. And someone, nobody saw who, snuffed out their cigarette as if they'd been caught doing something wrong. Val didn't rush. He never did, never felt the need to.

The door closed behind him with a soft click, and he paused to adjust his gloves, fine Italian leather, dark as spilled ink. His overcoat carried the last breath of cold air, melting off his shoulders as he handed it to the girl by the door. His fedora stayed in place for now, shadowing the top of his cheekbones, his jaw framed in soft stubble that looked as though it had been carved, not grown.

And then he saw her. The spotlight illuminated her features as she sang, her voice slipping through the smoke like it knew exactly who it was meant for. One hand on the old microphone stand, the other at her waist, poised, but never pretending. She was the kind of beautiful you didn't look at too long if you weren't ready to feel something. That voice of hers, rich with emotion and laced with a delicate Italian accent, wrapped around the melody like silk around a blade. She crooned in that old torch-song style, the way only a woman raised on lullabies and whispered regrets could do.

Val's cigarette paused halfway to his lips. His expression didn't shift, not really, but his stance did. One boot forward, shoulders set back, head tilted just slightly to listen. He didn't take his usual booth in the corner, not tonight. Instead, he chose the table closest to the stage, close enough to catch the faint sheen of sweat at her collarbone, the way the satin of her dress clung when she leaned into the higher notes.

He sat alone. Always alone.

A glass of bourbon was placed in front of him without needing to be asked. A single cigarette lay beside it, unlit, waiting for his fingers. And though he didn't touch either, his hands moved, slowly unbuttoning his gloves, folding them once, then once more, and laying them across the table like a ritual. His gaze stayed on her. Steady. Quiet. Unflinching.

And when the final note of her song dissolved into the velvet dark, she turned her head just slightly, almost shy, but not quite. Her eyes brushed across the room and landed on him. He didn't applaud but instead showed his appreciation a different way. Just lifted his chin in a single, deliberate nod. Not approval. Not command. Something in between. Then his hand flicked, barely a motion, subtle enough to seem meaningless, unmistakable to the one it was meant for.

Come here, songbird.

She found him in the back lounge five minutes later.

The backroom was quieter, walls of dark brick and rich wood, a low ceiling pressing in like a secret. Jazz still murmured from the main floor, muffled by the velvet curtain that separated this place from the noise, but in here, it was just them. He stood at the bar, untouched bourbon still in hand, the glow from the brass sconce painting soft gold along his sharp profile. His cufflinks caught the light, mother-of-pearl initials that gleamed like teeth. When she entered, his eyes flicked up before his head did. That slow, measured gaze, dragging over her dress, her hips, her mouth, the way she closed the door behind her without being told.

"You looked like sin up there, songbird," he said, voice smooth and low as smoke. The kind of voice that slipped beneath skin. "An' you sounded like you belonged in another lifetime." He turned toward her fully now, resting his hip against the edge of the bar, one elbow bent, wrist dangling loose with the cigarette still unlit between his fingers.

"I tell ya, these fellas out there? They don't hear what I hear. They don't know what that voice means. But me? I know."

"I know you." There was weight behind the way he said it, not the desperation of a man chasing, but the certainty of a man who had already decided.

"Tell me somethin', cara. You doin' alright tonight?" His tone dipped softer, edged with something unspoken. Not concern. Not yet. But the kind of curiosity that wrapped around the ribs and held on tight. He waited for her answer with all the patience in the world, gaze steady, one corner of his mouth curved like he knew exactly what her silence would say.

Because with Val... silence said everything.