That evening, I did not arrive at the club with company, and that alone was enough for the people around me to understand that the night was not about entertainment, but about something else. In places like this, presence is rarely accidental, and meetings even more rarely remain what they appear to be at first glance. The meeting that had brought me there was not the kind whose importance lay in spoken sentences or details written on paper. Its real weight lived in silences, in averted eyes, and in carefully chosen tones, because this place was not simply a club. It was a world that operated by its own rules, where business rarely stayed on the surface, and where my presence did not need to be explained. It was simply accepted, the way people accept the existence of gravity. Inside, the space was pulsing. The music vibrated low through the walls, the lights moved slowly over bodies and faces, and the dance floor seemed almost too crowded with moving figures, women who were not simply following the rhythm, but playing with it deliberately. They leaned closer, turned away, then returned again, as if they understood perfectly that in this world every movement was a message, every glance a negotiation, and nothing happened without real intention. The air was thick, filled with perfume, alcohol, and the unspoken anticipation that belonged to places like this. From time to time, a tray moved silently through the crowd, discreetly and yet naturally, as if the system no one spoke about openly worked so perfectly precisely because of that silence. As I moved towards the VIP section, the noise gradually dulled, the lights took on deeper shades, and the meaning of the room changed with them. Up there, spectacle no longer ruled. Control did. That quiet, dangerous power that never demands attention, yet draws every gaze all the same. They were already waiting at the table. Maximilian De Luca looked at me from the side as he slowly raised his glass, and although the gesture remained effortless, his eyes held the kind of deliberate attention that was never just a greeting. It was a reminder that, in this world, every presence had a price and a meaning. I sat down opposite him. The music still pulsed in the background, and the movement of the dance floor melted into one flowing current, but to me it remained little more than scenery. My attention was not on the music or the spectacle, but on the invisible balance that exists in every room, deciding who controls and who adapts. The women sitting around us kept returning their eyes to me. Not openly. Not intrusively. With careful curiosity instead, and beneath it something far more instinctive, as if they could not decide whether they were allowed to watch me so clearly, yet were unable to look away. I had known that kind of attention for a long time. Power and fame have their own gravity, and they do not need to be proven. Over the years, I had learned that most people reveal far too much about themselves without saying a single word. And in this situation, it was not the glances themselves that interested me, but the fine, invisible tension that always appears when too many interests and too many egos are placed in the same room. Max leaned back slowly and tasted his Zombie cocktail. – You’re late, – he remarked, though there was no real reproach in his voice. A faint smile appeared at the corner of his mouth. – But I assume you decided, once again, that everyone could wait for you. My eyes met his briefly. – And they did, – I answered calmly as I sat down. Max laughed quietly, his fingers running along the rim of his glass. – That is exactly why I hate you and respect you at the same time. I did not react. For a moment, my attention slipped to the space below, where the lights kept moving over bodies and faces, and as the conversation around us slowly began, something restless shifted inside me. It was an instinct difficult to grasp, not connected to the meeting or to the people present, but to that feeling that sometimes rises without warning, as if the air itself were hinting that the night would not end the way it had been planned. Some leaned closer while speaking, their gaze lingering on me a fraction longer than necessary. Some became slower and more deliberate in their movements, as if offering something with every small gesture without ever saying it out loud. Others simply watched, quietly waiting, because they understood exactly that in situations like this, what mattered was not who made the first move, but where every gaze eventually led. That kind of attention was not new to me. I had lived with it for too long for it to truly affect me. Over the years, I had seen the same patterns on different faces, in different cities, among different circles, and I knew exactly how those stories ended before they had even begun.Fame has its own weight. People thought they knew me because of the films, because of the red carpets, the magazine covers, and the cameras. To them, I was Massimo Moretti, one of Sicily’s most recognisable actors. The man whose face had looked back from too many posters and too many magazine covers to remain unnoticed. And I let them believe it. Acting was the perfect disguise. Bright enough to blind people. Loud enough to drown out the things no one was allowed to speak about. Because while the world saw roles, premieres, interviews, and stories hidden behind them, the real deals were made somewhere else entirely, at tables where handshakes mattered more than contracts, and where loyalty often cost more than money. Few people knew who I really was, and even fewer remained alive after forgetting how my world worked. One of the men at the table, a man who had known me far too long to respect my boundaries properly, looked at me from the side as he slowly raised his glass. Marco Bellini. In Sicily, his name alone was enough to make certain doors open silently, and others close forever. – You don’t seriously think you can have everyone you set your eyes on, – he said calmly, a faint, provocative smile forming at the corner of his mouth. I did not answer at once. I leaned back slowly, took my glass in my hand, and looked across the room, at the lights, the movements, and the people who had no idea they were playing their parts in a game that had begun long before them. In that moment, the question was not whether Marco’s words were true. It was why he believed an exception could exist. – There is no one I cannot have, – I said at last, calmly, without the slightest effort, because to me this was not an opinion. It was experience. A quiet laugh moved around the table. Not disbelief. Curiosity. Marco slowly leaned closer. – Then let’s make a bet. – His voice stayed quiet, but the challenge beneath it became immediately clear. He tasted his Bloody Mary and smiled at me like the devil himself. – I’ll choose someone… and we’ll see whether what you claim is really true. My gaze remained on him. – And what do I win? – I asked as I leaned back. I touched the glass to my lips, took a sip, and let the taste of the whisky linger while I considered Marco’s strange but exciting game. He knew me too well. He knew competition ran in my blood, and that I did not like losing. I did not know how to lose. The light flashed across Marco’s glass. – If you succeed, my company is yours. You’ve wanted my London business for a long time, so you can have it easily. – He paused briefly. – But if I win… your Sicilian business becomes mine.The air around the table tightened almost imperceptibly. Unshakable confidence shone in Marco’s eyes, and it only sharpened the fire in me. – It won’t be enough to get her, – he continued slowly. – You have to make her fall in love with you. Make her believe you will marry her… and then leave her on the wedding day. His words were spoken softly, but they carried weight, because he was not offering a game. He was offering stakes. And he knew perfectly well that I never stepped back from a challenge. I did not answer immediately. Only the faintest half-smile appeared on my face. To me, this did not feel like a real risk. Too many women had already wanted me to let them close, and too few had understood that possession and emotion have never meant the same thing.
– I accept, – I said at last, then tasted my whisky.
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