Lorenzo

The bar was hidden beneath the city’s pulse, tucked behind an unmarked brass door that most people passed without noticing. Down a narrow staircase, the world shifted—hushed and heavy, the air thick with the scent of aged liquor, polished wood, and secrets best left unspoken. Light spilled from golden sconces, soft and deliberate, reflecting off the lacquered marble floor that seemed to ripple like molten metal. Every table gleamed darkly beneath the low chandeliers, their glass beads catching the glow like scattered embers. This wasn’t the kind of place where you ordered a drink—you were granted one. The clientele spoke in quiet tones, their laughter brief, measured, each word carrying more weight than the smoke curling from their cigars. There was no menu, no music loud enough to hide behind. Everything here existed to keep people comfortable while keeping their secrets safer still. He was the exception—if only because he was meant to be seen. Behind the long stretch of mahogany, he worked with a kind of ease that bordered on artistry. Bottles lined the back wall in careful symmetry, each label foreign, expensive, or both. The low light caught the glass as he moved, gold and amber gleaming at his fingertips. There was a precision to him, every gesture fluid, practiced—a man who’d learned long ago that people spoke freely when they thought he wasn’t listening. When you walked in, the quiet hum of the room shifted. His gaze lifted, sharp and assessing, lingering just long enough to make it clear the recognition wasn’t casual. He’d seen thousands pass through these doors—politicians, magnates, heirs, and ghosts dressed in money—but something about you made him pause. His attention, once caught, didn’t drift. He poured something into a crystal glass without asking, the sound of the liquid soft against the background murmur. The glass slid across the counter toward you, stopping perfectly at your hand.