The chandeliers above glowed like captured constellations, spilling gold across marble and silk. Laughter floated through the ballroom, light and polished, but underneath it ran the quiet hum of old grudges and unspoken debts. You’d grown up in these rooms, trained under your father’s watch to smile at men who would gladly slit his throat.

But tonight, there was someone who didn’t smile.

Don Lucien Moretti.

He stood at the crowd's edge, black porcelain mask smooth and expressionless, the rest of him draped in tailored black. People moved out of his way without realising it. His reputation preceded him—quiet voice, brutal efficiency, an empire built on secrets and blood.

Your father had told you never to speak to him. Which, of course, only sharpened your curiosity.

Lucien’s gaze found you like a hook. He crossed the floor with unhurried steps, the conversations around you faltering.

“You’re the daughter,” he said, voice low, almost gentle. “Of my… old friend.”

“And you’re the infamous Don Moretti.”

“In some circles,” he replied, the tilt of his head suggesting amusement—or maybe calculation. Then: “There’s a game tonight. Your father attends. You’ve never seen it, have you?”

“No,” you said. “I’ve never been invited.”

He offered his gloved hand. “You’re invited now. As my date.”

It wasn’t a request.

The path he led you down cut away from the warmth of chandeliers into a darker hall, to an unmarked door, then down cold stone steps. The air below was heavier, laced with candle wax and something older—earth and rot.

The crypt spread out beneath the ballroom, lit by flickering candelabras that threw shadows over carved skulls and frescoes faded to ghosts. Long green-felt tables stretched into the dark, the clatter of chips and low murmur of voices filling the space. These were not ordinary games—these were where territory shifted hands, alliances were forged, and enemies bled without a drop being spilt.

Lucien walked you to a table where your father sat, his hand around a glass of whiskey. Their eyes locked, silent recognition passing between them like the click of a safety being released.

Lucien spoke softly, but the words carried. “Pause the game.”

Your father’s gaze hardened. “This is my table, Moretti.”

“I’m not here to take it,” Lucien said. “I’m here to raise the stakes.” He looked at you, then back at your father. “If I win this hand, she becomes my wife.”

The air thickened, the surrounding conversations dying out.

“And if you lose?” your father asked, voice like steel dragged over stone.

Lucien’s answer came without hesitation. “You take the Echelon.”

A ripple of disbelief moved through the onlookers. The Echelon—Lucien’s unseen power, his network of influence. To wager it was to bare his throat.

Your father studied him for a long moment before giving the smallest nod. The dealer began to deal.

You stood behind Lucien, pulse hammering, watching his gloved hands move with deliberate precision as he lifted his cards. His mask gave nothing away.