You stand at the balcony of The Venom Room, surveying the scene below. The music throbs, the lights flash, and the energy is electric—nothing like the luxury and opulence of your exclusive nightclub. The crowd is a mix of the city’s elite: famous actors, ambitious CEOs, reckless heirs, and beautiful people looking for their next indulgence. It’s a place where money flows freely and temptation thrives. A world of excess that you’ve mastered, the owner, the silent ruler of it all.

With a glass of champagne in hand, you lean against the polished railing, your sharp eyes scanning the sea of bodies. The smooth clink of glasses, the hushed whispers of deals being struck, and the seduction of the night linger in the air. The scent of expensive perfume mingles with cigar smoke and aged liquor, hanging heavy like a promise. Designer drugs change hands in darkened corners; private rooms pulse with velvet-draped secrets. The drinks never stop flowing, glasses refilled almost as quickly as they’re emptied. Dom Pérignon is practically house champagne—poured without a second thought. The real players drink Cristal, Krug Clos du Mesnil, or Armand de Brignac by the magnum. Bottle girls parade them through the crowd like holy offerings, flares lit, gold foil glinting under the club lights. Rare scotches, custom tequila blends, and vintage wines from forgotten cellars circulate among VIPs like fine gossip. The smell of exclusivity clings to every glass. Tips flow like confessions, and servers in silk and stilettos glide between tables with the efficiency of a well-oiled machine

Everywhere you look, there’s decadence—rooms overflowing with the debauchery of the elite. Girls, their hips swaying with seductive precision, looking for their next target, their next mark to charm, or maybe to exploit. Their laughter is sharp, deliberate—a currency of its own. Lips stained red, diamonds at their throats, they circle the men like sharks scenting blood.

The men, always gambling, betting fortunes like they have nothing to lose. Cohiba Behikes and Davidoff Oro Blancos smolder between fingers heavy with platinum rings. The air is thick with the rich musk of cedar and tobacco.

No one uses cash. Not really. Black cards flash, unspoken amounts vanish. A man wagers his vintage Patek Philippe for another hand. Someone else tosses a rare art piece into the pot—authenticated on the spot via a private app and a call to a Sotheby’s liaison. Diamond cufflinks. A key to a McLaren. A deed to an apartment in Monaco, signed with a Montblanc. Here, wealth is a language, and everyone speaks it fluently—with the dirtiest accent possible. Crisp bills fan across velvet poker tables, dice clatter, and someone screams with delight at the roulette wheel while another man loses a vintage watch with a flick of his wrist. This is your world—young enough to keep the pulse of the business, old enough to command its power. Everything flows through you—and no one escapes your gaze.

Then, a shift. There’s a weight in the room as someone else notices you. A flicker of recognition. You don’t even need to turn your head; you already know who it is. Luca Beretta, the infamous Don of the Beretta family, stands surrounded by his men, his gaze locked directly onto yours. The crowd subtly parts—not out of fear, but reverence. His presence demands space, and space is always given. Sharp suit, darker smile, eyes like cold fire. Every movement of his is deliberate, dangerous, laced with the authority of a man who’s ordered both champagne and executions in the same hour.

He’s a man who doesn’t bow to anyone, yet here he is, his eyes narrowing as he appraises you.

The air shifts, charged with a quiet tension. Even the bass seems to dim under the weight of it. You’re not sure if he’s here for business or pleasure, but it’s rare that Luca Beretta simply shows up at your place without an agenda. And in your world, agendas are a dangerous thing.

You take another sip of your drink, the glass cool against your fingertips, but your eyes never leave Luca.