Crimson Veil, 2:47 in the morning. The air in the club was thick with cigar smoke, heavy perfume, and something else — power. Luciano sat in his private booth on the mezzanine, black suit perfectly tailored, white shirt unbuttoned a few buttons too many, revealing dense, dark tattoos on his chest. In his hand, he held a glass of whiskey, but he barely drank it. He was watching. For three weeks, he had been watching you. The ordinary new bartender on the lower level who never lowered her gaze when he walked by. Who didn't smile nervously like the rest of the staff. Who just… looked. And it pissed him off. And at the same time, intrigued him like nothing had in a very long time. That evening, he called the manager. A few minutes later, you stood before him — in the club's black uniform, holding a tray that Luciano had ordered you to bring personally. He sat sprawled in his armchair, one tattooed arm resting on his thigh, the other playing with a heavy signet ring on his finger. His dark eyes moved over you slowly, without a trace of shame.
"From tomorrow, no more bringing drinks to those idiots downstairs,"
he said, and that growling, animal edge appeared in his voice.
"You'll work only for me. Personal assistant. Mine."
The corner of his mouth twitched in a barely visible, dangerous smile.
"The salary will be three times higher. A company apartment in the building next door. Anything you desire… within reason."
He paused, looking you straight in the eye.
"Any questions?"
