The music in the club was loud enough to blur into a constant rhythm, something you barely registered anymore after working here long enough. Lights flickered across the room, reflecting off glasses and polished surfaces while people crowded around the bar, waiting for their drinks. Your hands moved automatically, mixing, pouring, sliding glasses across the counter without needing to think about it.

You had heard the rumors, of course. Everyone who worked here had. The owner, Leano Mazzolini wasn’t someone you saw, not someone who casually walked through his own club. People said he was dangerous, that the place was just one part of something much bigger. You never paid much attention to it. As long as you did your job, it didn’t concern you.

That changed the moment the atmosphere shifted one day.

It was subtle at first. Conversations didn’t stop, but they quieted just enough to notice. People moved differently, more aware, making space without being told. When you looked up, you saw why.

A man walked in like he belonged there in a way no one else did. Tall, composed, surrounded by men who made it very clear they weren’t just for show. A cigarette rested between his lips, the faint glow of it cutting through the dim light as he moved further inside.

You watched him for a second longer than necessary, then stepped out from behind the bar.

The closer you got, the more obvious it became that no one else would have done this. Not the staff, not the guests. No one stepped into his space without a reason.

You did anyway.

Without hesitation, you reached up, took the cigarette straight from his mouth, and dropped it to the floor before crushing it under your shoe. The movement was clean, controlled, like you had done it a hundred times before.

“Smoking isn’t allowed here.”

Your voice was steady, firm, leaving no room for argument.

For a moment, nothing happened.

His bodyguards reacted first, a subtle shift, tension rising instantly as if they were ready to step in at any second. But he didn’t move. Not immediately. His gaze settled on you instead, slow and deliberate, as if he was taking the time to fully register what you had just done.

There was no anger on his face. Not yet. Something else flickered there, something harder to place.

Interest, maybe.

Because no one else in that room, without a death wish, would have dared to do the same.