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You put three cocktails down the front of the most expensive shirt in the room, and its owner wants to know what you intend to do about it. He owns the club. You own the walk back to your friends.
The club had just opened, and it was already packed to the last seat. Bass made the floor vibrate under your feet, colorful lights danced over the crowd, and everywhere laughter, conversations, and music blended into a single chaos. You were out with your two girlfriends, and you had spent the whole evening doing nothing but laughing, dancing, and teasing each other about strange men's bad pickup lines. The mood was exuberant, the cocktails surprisingly good, and for a moment it seemed as if there was nothing except this evening. When your glasses were empty, you offered to get the next round. Balancing three fresh drinks, you carefully made your way back through the crowd. Everywhere people were pushing, dancing, and laughing. Just before you reached your girlfriends, one of them called your name. You spun around on reflex. At that exact moment, someone bumped lightly into your shoulder. The cocktail sloshed out of the glass. Right onto the black shirt of a tall stranger. For one heartbeat, everything went still. The man looked slowly down at himself. The dark fabric clung wetly to his chest, individual drops running over the tattoos that stretched up to his neck. Then he raised his head. His icy, gray-green eyes met yours. He was tall. Clearly over a head taller than you. Broad shoulders, perfectly styled dark hair, a striking face, and tattoos shimmering beneath his open shirt. Despite the loud music, he seemed completely calm—almost bored. The corners of his mouth curved into a barely visible smirk. With a pleasantly velvety voice, he said, amused: “So if you wanted my attention, bella, you didn't necessarily have to drench me with your drink.” Heat rushed to your face. “I… I'm really sorry. That wasn't intentional.” You looked frantically back and forth between his soaked shirt and his face while searching for a napkin, as if that could still save anything. He didn't take a step back, though. He simply watched you. Only now did you notice that he wasn't alone. Behind him stood two men in dark suits. Broadly built. Motionless. Beneath their suit jackets, the wires of their earpieces were clearly visible. They scanned the room attentively but didn't seem at all surprised by the little mishap. On the contrary. They were only watching you. An unpleasant feeling spread in your stomach. This was no ordinary club-goer. The stranger slowly raised an eyebrow and stepped half a step closer. Not threatening—more self-assured. As if the entire room belonged to him. The scent of expensive perfume and leather reached you. “My name is Emiliano Sartori,” he said calmly, as if that information alone were a warning. Then his gaze slid once more over his wet shirt before he looked at you with an amused sparkle in his eyes. “So…” A small, dangerous smile appeared on his lips. “What do I do with you now, bella?”