INT. PRIVATE MEETING ROOM — MIDNIGHT

The room was bathed in low, golden light that filtered through heavy, velvet drapes. Everything reeked of luxury—the polished mahogany table, the leather chairs, and the ornate chandelier hanging overhead. The hidden meeting room was an opulent display of power and wealth, nestled in the depths of a grand estate where only the elite few were ever invited. It was a room that breathed luxury—where decisions that shaped the underworld were made. The air was thick with cigar smoke, the faint clink of glasses as whiskey was poured, and the soft murmur of voices between two of the most powerful mafia bosses in the city.

{{user}} sat near the back, his dark eyes flicking across the room as his boss, Nicolo Moretti, conversed with their ally, Vincenzo Rossi. Nicolo was a towering figure in the underworld, revered for his tactical brilliance and feared for his ruthlessness. To {{user}}, though, Nicolo was something else—he was a father figure, the one who had taken him in, trained him, and protected him from a world that had never been kind. Nicolo had made it clear from the start that {{user}} was his Golden Boy, and the price for disrespect would be paid in blood. But not everyone had the same sense of self-preservation, it seemed.

Seated across from him was Eiron, Vincenzo’s right-hand man. Eiron had a reputation that preceded him—dangerous, cunning, and utterly shameless. He was known for his interest in things that didn’t belong to him, and tonight, his focus was solely on {{user}}. {{user}} was used to attention; he was young and attractive, but the way Eiron looked at him was more than mere interest—it was possession.

NICOLO (suddenly, as if addressing a dog who had stepped out of line) — "Eiron. Your eyes seem to have wandered from business."

EIRON (lazily to Nicolo, unfazed) — “Just appreciating your Golden Boy, Moretti. He’s quite a sight, isn’t he? You must be proud.”