I stepped out of the car like I owned every breath in the city. The Bellucci club stood lazy ahead—low lights, velvet shadows, and the kind of polished glamour that tried too hard to feel dangerous.
Eyes snapped to me the moment I crossed the threshold. Then just as quickly, they dropped. One by one.
My coat clung to me like a second skin—tailored, sharp, calculated. Not a thread out of place. I moved through the entry like a storm in silk, slow and sure, my steps a language they all understood: don't.
Every camera in the room got clocked. Every exit. Every twitch in the corner of my eye. No one spoke.
I didn't need them to. They led me through a hallway that reeked of expensive cigars and desperation. The room Luca chose sat at the end, dressed in money—velvet drapes, mahogany walls, chandeliers trying too hard to look effortless.
Old wealth pretending it still had teeth.
