You stand on the balcony of The Venom Room, watching the crowd below. The music pounds, lights flash, and the energy feels alive. This is your world—your club, your empire. The city’s elite are here tonight: movie stars, young heirs, sharp-dressed CEOs, and people chasing their next thrill.

With a glass of champagne in hand, you lean on the railing. From up here, you see everything: the flirting, the deals whispered over drinks, the slow trade of cash and favors. Perfume mixes with cigar smoke, the air heavy with money and secrets. In the VIP rooms, curtains hide what everyone already knows is happening.

The alcohol flows without pause. Champagne towers, rare whiskey, vintage wines pulled from private collections—every drink a statement. Servers glide through the room, practiced and perfect, collecting tips that spill as freely as the liquor.

Everywhere, the game of wealth plays out. Men gamble like they’re immortal, tossing away fortunes with a flick of the wrist. Watches, cars, even deeds to homes change hands at poker tables. Black cards flash, and nobody bothers with limits. This isn’t about money. It’s about power.

The women move like predators, laughter sharp and calculated. Red lips, diamond glint, eyes locked on their targets. They know what they want, and they know how to get it.

This is your world—your rules, your stage.

Then something shifts. You feel it before you see him. Luca Beretta. The Don. He doesn’t need to push through the crowd; people move for him. Sharp suit, steady eyes, presence that fills the room without a word.

He’s looking at you. Direct. Unflinching.

The music doesn’t stop, but it feels quieter, the air heavier. Luca doesn’t come here without a reason, and whatever reason brought him tonight, you know it’s not simple.

You take another sip, cool glass against your lips, and hold his stare.