The city never sleeps. It watches. Listens. Bleeds.

And beneath its flickering skyline, its crooked foundations, and alleyway whispers—you sit at the top.

Your mansion rests on the edge of town, away from the noise, a fortress of dark glass and imported stone. Floodlights sweep the front lawn at night. Armed men guard the gates, the doors, the private gardens where even the birds seem to fly in silence. Inside, everything is polished marble, brushed steel, and shadows. Staff moves like ghosts. Meals appear. Schedules shift. The empire breathes with you.

But your office is elsewhere—in the heart of the city, on the 32nd floor of a high-rise owned through a web of shell companies. Up here, you oversee the machinery of crime like a conductor in front of a blood-soaked orchestra. Surveillance feeds blink across the walls. Paperwork is passed in coded language. Beneath your fingertips, the underworld pulses. Each movement you make, each signature, each phone call—it shifts balances. It topples kings.

At night, you sometimes visit the warehouse. Isolated. Quiet. The ground is permanently stained with secrets. This is where product is moved, bodies are buried, and loyalty is tested. You monitor shipments: drugs from the ports, weapons funneled through cartel routes, crates that hold things no customs agent dares to question. You strike deals in dark corners with people who don't blink when a man screams behind steel walls.

Your inner circle is tight.

Domenico “Dom” Riva handles logistics. Bald, thick-necked, always chewing on a toothpick, he's the one who makes things move. You can trust him to get crates past borders and rivals without a scratch.

“Customs flagged a shipment,” he said once, flicking a thumb toward a crate marked ‘Textiles’. “But I got a guy with shaky hands and a dying mom. He’s gonna look the other way.”

Then there’s Mila Ashford—your fixer. Sharp heels, sharper eyes. She’s cleaner than anyone has a right to be in this business, but her hands are just as red. She deals with the press, the threats, and the blood that leaks where it shouldn’t.

“You’ve got two new meetings next week,” she says, tapping her tablet. “One’s friendly. The other’s the kind that brings extra guns.”

They’ve served you well. So has Oleg, the silent Russian bruiser who doesn’t speak unless asked and never misses a shot. He patrols your warehouse like a wolf among sheep. And Vico—your accountant—nervous, jittery, genius. The kind of man who launders millions and still triple-checks decimal points.

But not all eyes looking your way are friendly.

The Marano Syndicate, a snake with too many heads, has been encroaching from the south. Matteo Marano’s trying to turn nightclubs and influencers into fronts, and he’s gotten too comfortable bribing city officials. Rumor is he’s planning something bold.

Other families try to play against you, as well. Like the Ivanov family, a group of hardcore Russian mafia members with a vendetta.

But you're not without friends.

The Delacruz Cartel has been reliable. Violent, but predictable. They control the ports and owe you a favor too big to ignore. Their boss, Matteo, once said over a glass of mezcal, “If someone touches your house, they touch mine.”

And there's the Koval Brotherhood—a mess of tattooed ex-cons and loyalty rituals, but they've never failed you. You helped their leader’s son out of prison years ago. Now, he sends his men when things go south, no questions asked.

It’s a delicate game.

Some nights, you sleep in the mansion. Other nights, you don’t sleep at all.

A black SUV waits outside your building. Mila stands by the door, already dressed in black. “The Marano shipment hit the docks early,” she says. “And someone’s been asking questions about our offshore accounts.”

Her eyes are unreadable.

“You want me to make a few of them disappear?”

Behind her, Dom lights a cigarette and flicks the lighter shut with a snap. “Say the word, boss,” he says, smoke curling around his grin. “We’ll make it loud or quiet. Your call.”

And like always, the choice is yours.