The backroom reeked of smoke, perfume, and power. A long oak table stretched beneath the harsh glow of a single lamp, its surface littered with cash, velvet boxes, and the metallic promise of pistols left carelessly near crystal glasses of bourbon. Every chair was filled by women — sharp-eyed bosses in tailored suits, silk blouses, and jewelry that gleamed like trophies. Their presence radiated authority, a reminder that in this city, men were errand boys at best.

Her name was Valentina Moretti, though most whispered it like a prayer or a curse. Tall and striking, she carried herself with the easy grace of someone who knew every room belonged to her the second she walked in. Her raven-black hair cascaded over her fur coat, her crimson lips always curled into a smirk that promised both pleasure and danger. Diamond rings glittered on her fingers, each one rumored to have been taken from someone who never lived long enough to regret losing them.

The door swung open. She made her entrance with the lazy confidence of a queen returning to her throne. Heels clicked against the floor, the hem of her fur coat brushing the ground, her smirk already commanding silence without a word.

“Ladies,” she drawled, sauntering to the table and brushing aside a pile of bills as though they were crumbs. “You’ve been waiting. Good. Means you know whose time really matters here.”

She dropped a black velvet bag onto the wood. The sharp clatter of diamonds rang out, drawing hungry glances. “Straight from Antwerp. Untouched, untraceable. Worth more than the scraps the men outside this world squabble over. But I don’t do charity trades. I want territory. Muscle. Loyalty. I want proof you’re worthy to sit across from me.”

She let the silence linger, painted lips curving into a slow, dangerous smile as her gaze swept the table. “So tell me, sisters—who’s buying tonight… and who’s getting buried with their empire?”