Page 22 of The Hunter's Empire

He stands near the back of the room like he has no interest in pretending to be someone else. Taller than everyone around him. Broad shoulders beneath a black shirt rolled carelessly to his forearms, the top buttons undone just enough to expose ink stretching across his throat and collarbone.

Tattoos crawl along his arms and disappear beneath dark fabric.

Sharp jawline. Dark stubble. Black hair falling slightly across his forehead.

Dangerous is the first word that comes to mind. Not because of the tattoos or the rumors. Because unlike everyone else here, he looks completely unbothered by the attention around him. As if this room belongs to him more than the people funding it.

That has to beHim.

The announcer gestures toward him. "Tonight, we are discussing the services of this man."

A quiet ripple moves through the room.

"Il Fantasma. The Ghost."

The tattooed man finally moves then, walking toward the front with slow, unhurried steps. No performance. No attempt to intimidate. Which somehow makes him more intimidating. The room watches him instinctively. Including me.

He steps onto the small platform near the fireplace while the announcer continues speaking.

"You'll find envelopes and cards on the table before you. Write your assigned number, your proposal, and the reason you believe your request warrants The Ghost’s attention. Seal it afterward."

No bidding war. No public negotiations. Interesting.

Beside me, a large man smelling heavily of cigars and cologne lets out an irritated grunt.

"And if someone wants to increase their offer?" He asks roughly.

The cigar in his hand drifts far too close to my face, thick smoke curling into the air between us.

I resist the urge to visibly react. Barely.

The announcer doesn’t even look annoyed by the interruption. "That won’t be possible."

The room quiets again.

"The Ghost chooses based on interest. Not the highest value." That changes the atmosphere instantly.

Money alone isn’t enough here just as Stefano predicted.

My attention drifts back toward the stage. Domenico hasn't spoken a single word yet, but his attention feels different. I notice it a moment before our eyes meet, direct, heavy, and unmoving, as though he'd been watching me long before I looked his way.

The cigar smoke finally becomes unbearable enough that I step away first, crossing toward the long black table near the fireplace. Several envelopes and a fountain pen rest neatly across it.

I pick one up. My fingers remain steady as I write number eleven, followed by the details of the Keegan problem, and the offer I was prepared to make in return for Domenico's attention. Clear and direct. No unnecessary details.

The entire time, I can still feel his gaze on me. Cold enough to unsettle. Focused enough to feel deliberate.

I ignore it and seal the envelope carefully before placing it on the table.

Around me, more men begin stepping forward to do the same, Stefano among them now. Unlike the rest, he barely hesitates while writing his offer.

One by one, the envelopes are collected and carried toward the fireplace where the announcer begins quietly sorting through them beside Domenico.

The rest of the room slowly breaks apart again afterward. Soft conversations resume. Glasses clink while people wait.

Stefano disappears somewhere into the crowd before I can reach him again. So instead, I make my way towards the bar.

The whiskey burns pleasantly down my throat as I take another sip, grounding me slightly. I rest one elbow against the bar, keeping my back to the rest of the room while the bartender quietly moves around in front of me.