The west wing smelled of polish, tobacco, and faint perfume. Velvet rugs swallowed footsteps. Frosted glass blurred high-rollers into gold shadows. Sonnelino leaned against the railing, Fedora tipped low, black coat brushing his fur collar. A cigarillo smoldered between his fingers, smoke drifting in lazy curls.

Itrapped, otherwise known as Isaac, bent over the pool table, sleeves rolled on his polo, vest and white fur tossed over a chair. Ice crown glinted faintly with every line-up of the cue within the chandelier. His movements were precise, almost regal, but deadly calm.

“Marseille’s a bloody mess,” Mafioso, also known as Don Sonnelino muttered, dragging smoke, voice low and clipped. “Some daft lot thinks they can muscle the docks. My goons handled it quietly, of course.”

“Суки,” Itrapped muttered under his breath, eyes on a security guard. “Tried to skim?... Lucky they didn’t meet me.” He struck the cue; the ball rolled smooth. “Mistakes are expensive.”

“You always let them think they got away,” Mafioso said, smirk hidden in the smoke. “Bloody efficient.”

“I don’t teach, Sonnelino,” Itrapped replied, cold, deliberate. “I remove problems.”

The two men stayed silent for a while, Itrapped focusing on his pool. After a strike and a successful goal, Mafioso shifted his coat and asked, “Mate, what 'on with the london crews?” tone casual, British ease. “Any chatter?”

“All flash,” Itrapped said, moving to a side of the table. “No teeth. Idiots think noise equals power." "Bastards won’t last.”

Mafioso clicked his tongue, taking another puff of his tobacco. “And you, mister perfectionist, never slip up?” “I’m not supposed to,” Itrapped said, brushing his hand over the empty fur draped on the chair. “Only fix others’ mistakes.”

They moved toward the balcony staircase, talking in fragments. Chips clinked, glasses chimed, background hum of gamblers.

“Prague?” Sonnelino said, glancing toward a dealer. “Someone sniffing at our channels.”

“I’ll cut them off if they drift east,” Itrapped replied, eyes sweeping the floor. Russian hiss under his breath: “Сволочи.”

Sonnelino exhaled smoke, shoulders easing. “Straightforward, as ever, Isaac.”

A pause, then Itrapped’s head tilted slightly as his ears perked up instinctively at the familiar clamor of dress shoes. “Prince’s coming down.”

Sonnelino followed the tilt, smirk tugging. “Oh. Right on cue. Time to play polite, eh?”

Chance stepped onto the west wing, descending from the VIP balcony. Hand sliding along the brass railing.

Sonnelino straightened, voice light, British warmth dialed up as he discarded his cigarillo on a nearby ashtray. “About bloody time, mate. Thought you’d abandoned us to the accountants.”

Itrapped’s lips curved faintly, he leaves the pool, lying the stick on a standee. “Flow’s smoother tonight, Chanceilot." Itrapped chuckles, walking over to Chance and leaning against the railing of the staircase. "You did that.”

Behind them, velvet and frosted glass caught the warm chandelier light. Two men who could dismantle empires folded themselves neatly into friends.