SILVER EYES IN THE DARK

THE GALA ATTACK

Three days had gone by since Damian got her out of Blackwell Tower. She kept looking back over her shoulder all that time. Every little shadow made her jump. She wondered if maybe she'd gone too deep into stuff that just didn't want to be found out.

Alina stared at herself in the bathroom mirror. Unease was building up inside her. Those dark circles under her eyes told the story of nights spent digging through her dad's old files. Plus, all the bits of info she'd scraped together. The truth seemed right there, almost touchable. But it stayed just out of reach, driving her crazy.

She tried the number Damian gave her. You know, the direct one that skipped his company's switchboard. No one picked up. Maybe he was dodging her calls. Or worse, something bad happened to him after she bolted from his office. Thinking about that last part twisted her stomach with worry she didn't expect.

Her editor was getting antsy now. That charity gala piece was due soon. All she had were some bland quotes and notes on rich folks being generous for tax breaks. How do you explain stumbling into something way more dangerous than just business scams? Writing about fancy drinks and snacks felt wrong when she knew people would kill to hide certain secrets.

The invite showed up that morning. Slid under her door while she was still asleep. Thick cardstock with fancy embossed letters. Her name is in pretty handwriting. Ms. Alina Cortez is cordially invited to the Blackwell Foundation Annual Benefit Dinner. No fake badges this round. No fibs needed. Her editor called it a big win. Exclusive shot at one of the city's top power players.

Alina figured it was fate, basically.

She stood there in front of the mirror now. Adjusting that black cocktail dress she'd splurged on for this. It hugged her figure nicely and elegantly. Professional vibe to explain why she was there. But striking enough to fit in with the money crowd. Her dark hair was pulled back into a sleek chignon. Heels that could double as weapons if things got dicey. Little recorder tucked in her clutch. Along with pepper spray. And a ceramic knife that wouldn't set off detectors.

Tonight wasn't about sneaking. Tonight, she walked right into the lion's den. Head up high.

The taxi stopped in front of Blackwell Tower as the sun dipped down. Long shadows stretched across the Manhattan streets. Photographers swarmed the entrance. Cameras flashing like crazy as ritzy cars let out their fancy passengers. Politicians. Movie stars. Tech billionaires. All the usual types at these swanky events. To anyone just passing by, it looked like a normal charity bash. But Alina spotted what others didn't.

Security was all over the place. Not the regular hotel folks or rent-a-cops. These were pros with that military look. Eyes that caught everything. Stationed at the doors. Corners. Hands close to hidden guns. These guys weren't just stopping gate crashers. They were geared up for real trouble.

The ballroom looked different from the last gala. Crystal chandeliers threw rainbow lights over marble floors. Silk drapes in gold hung by windows, showing off the sparkling city below. Waiters zipped around with trays of champagne and fancy bites. Stuff that costs more than a week's pay for most people. Talk buzzed about business deals. Political runs. Foundations that basically hid taxes.

But under all that shine, Alina felt the tension. Chats stopped when certain folks came near. Looks passed that hinted at hidden stuff and loose ends. Whatever was brewing in Damian Blackwell's world, this night felt like things were coming to a head.

She wove through the crowd carefully. Acting the part of a curious reporter. Ears perked for anything good. By the bar, two pharma execs talked supply chain snags with real edge.

The Council isn't thrilled with the delays, one muttered low.

Tell them to hash it out with Blackwell, the other shot back grimly. Nothing budges without his say-so.

Council. She'd heard that before. From weird phone messages. Snippets at the last event. Sounded like it had pull in Damian's circle.

Someone touched her elbow. She turned. Tall woman with silver hair. Sharp eyes locked on her. The press badge said Financial Times.

You're Cortez, right? From the Sentinel, the woman said softly.

Alina nodded. Not sure where this is headed.

The woman leaned in. Voice a whisper. Advice. Drop your story chase. Blackwell holds grudges. Never let go.

Before Alina could say a word, the woman vanished into the throng. Left her chilled. Not from the AC.

Her heart picked up. She realized eyes were on her beyond just guards. Other reporters. Business bigshots. Politicians. They all seemed to know her deal. Why was she there? Her digging had pinged powerful types who liked the dark.

Then she spotted him.

Damian Blackwell held court in the room's middle. Like a dark star pulling everything in. Black tux tailored perfectly. Showed off broad shoulders. That commanding air. Dark hair styled just so. Blue eyes scanning the crowd. Like a hunter checking his turf.

When his gaze hit her, everything shifted.

He was chatting with the city council guys. But his eyes stayed on her. Across the packed room, his focus felt like a touch. Heat rose in her face. Memories from their last run-in hit hard. The way he'd eyed her. That possessive voice saying she was his to protect.

He broke from the group. Headed her way on purpose. People stepped aside naturally. Talks dropped as he went by. The whole room waited.

You're either brave or foolish, he said when he got close. Same words from before.

You keep saying that she shot back. Trying to steady her voice. Pulse racing.

Because it's still true. His eyes ran over her dress. Heat flushed her cheeks. You look beautiful tonight.

The compliment threw her. Something softer in his tone. Not the usual bossy edge. For a sec, she saw the guy under the suit. It could be charming at other times.

Thanks, she got out. Though I doubt you invited me for chit-chat.

His smile was mysterious. Maybe I just wanted to see you here. Not breaking into offices. Or grilling me on secrets.

Lights flickered then. Once. Twice. Our total.

Darkness hit the ballroom. Just emergency lights throwing red glows on marble. Gasps spread. Then uneasy laughs. Folks were thinking it was some show effect.

Windows blew in next. Glass showered everywhere.

Screams broke out. Dark shapes dropped from the roof on ropes. Faces masked tactical. They spread fast. Guns out. Military moves. Not random. Planned hit.

Chaos blew up. Guests hit the floor. Crawling under tables. Behind pillars. Guards charged in. But outnumbered. Out armed. Attackers sliced through them quickly and meanly.

Alina's reporter side fought her survival kick. Run. Find the exit. Get gone. But she crouched by a pillar. Recorder gripped tight. Hands shaking.

Then she heard it. A growl. Low and scary. From deep in someone's chest.

She looked up. Damian is in the middle of it all. The change was wild. Polished exec gone. Something raw and lethal took over. Eyes glowing silver. Groomed look shifting to danger.

An attacker rushed him with a knife. Damian grabbed the wrist. Twisted. Bone snap cut through screams. Another came from back. Damian spun fast. Not human fast. Hand hit chest. But it was claws. Real claws. Ripping cloth and meat.

Horror mixed with awe in her. Watching him fight. Moved unnatural. Grace and power bending rules. Strikes dead on. Not luck. Not rush. Pure predator mode.

More bad guys flooded in. From the kitchen. Balcony. Service halls. Coordinated trap. But as she watched, stunned, it hit her. Not robbing. Not hostages.

Hunting one target.