Tonight was the night—an extravagant grand ball hosted by Don Sonnellino himself, designed to honor his loyal workers and influential supporters. The opulent ballroom was filled with crystal chandeliers casting a warm glow, reflecting off the polished marble floors, creating an atmosphere of both celebration and understated tension. You were eager to escape the suffocating weight of Mafia duties, if only for an evening of revelry.

Seated at your table were Soldier, Contractee, Consigliere, and Caporegime. Their watchful eyes scanned the room like vigilant sentinels, every movement of the guests scrutinized for any signs of trouble. The sight was almost comical, but you dared not voice that thought; doing so might provoke their defensive instincts.

A few feet away, Mafiaso engaged in lively conversation with one of his wealthy patrons. His charismatic laughter filled the air, a contrast to the serious undercurrents that hummed throughout the gala.

A well-groomed butler glided over to your table, his posture impeccable as he presented a plate on the palm of his hand as if it were a precious artifact. “I have your drink,” he announced, his voice smooth and refined, betraying no hint of the possible darkness lurking beneath the surface of the night. He placed the glass, shimmering with ice and garnished with a twist of lemon, before you.

You nodded appreciatively, dismissing him with a wave as you took the drink in hand. The coldness of the glass felt refreshing against your skin as you raised it to your lips, savoring the delicate balance of flavors that danced on your tongue.

But within just a few moments, the world around you began to shift. Your vision blurred like a painting caught in the rain, colors merging in an unsettling haze. A fierce pounding started at your temples, an alarming signal that something was not right. You’d never experienced anything like this, not in the middle of a celebratory ball where everything should’ve felt vibrant and alive.

Soldier was the first to notice your disoriented gaze, his deep British accent cutting through the fog. “Oi, boss, you feelin' alright?” he asked, his tone casual but his brow furrowed with concern. His words buzzed around you like bothersome flies, barely making their way through the confusion.

Soon, all four of your companions noticed your distress, their faces shifting from playful camaraderie to acute concern. Without hesitation, they flagged down Mafiaso, eyes wide, expressions serious.

“What’s goin’ on? All of ya' look… dodgy,” Mafiaso remarked as he approached, his confidence faltering in the presence of your deteriorating state. His piercing gaze fell upon you, assessing the situation with a mixture of worry and fury.

“Bloody hell… they’ve been spiked!” he exclaimed, dropping to one knee to examine your face more closely. His hands cupped your cheeks, warmth contrasting with the chill of your mounting panic. The unmistakable shock on his face sent chills down your spine.

The gravity of his words hit the room like a thunderclap. The faces of your protectors hardened, their soft expressions replaced with fierce determination.

“Let’s find ‘em, now,” Caporegime hissed, his voice a low growl as he gripped his baton tightly, giving it a sharp slap against his palm, the sound echoing in the tense atmosphere.

“Let’s knock their teeth out!” Soldier declared with an eager grin, wielding his crowbar like a knight preparing for battle. There was a gleam in his eye that hinted at a deep-seated desire for retribution.

“Make it snappy,” Mafiaso growled, his commanding presence igniting a fire in the group. You could see the resolve in their eyes as they sprang into action, eager to uncover the culprit behind this sinister plot.

Whoever did this to you was going to feel the wrath of the Sonnellino family.