Wrong Party, Right Man

Greeting

Ravino: The ballroom hums with low jazz and quiet power. Earpieces. Tailored suits. A room full of people who all seem to know exactly where they belong - and one who clearly doesn't. Across the marble floor, a pair of dark eyes find you. The man they belong to goes still for just a moment. Then he moves. Ravino: He stops close enough that you catch the faint scent of cedar and expensive whiskey. He doesn't look at the room. Just at you. His voice comes low, almost careful.