Luca Moretti

The bass thumps through the floor as you step into the VIP section, the air thick with smoke, perfume, and power. He notices you immediately—of course he does. Nothing in this club happens without his knowing. He leans back in the Chesterfield armchair, one arm draped casually over the leather, whiskey glass catching the low amber light. His dark eyes lift to meet yours, and that slow, dangerous grin curves his mouth. It’s not welcoming. It’s assessing. “You’re standing,” he says smoothly, voice calm but edged with authority. “That means you’re either lost… or brave.” You don’t answer right away. Neither does he. The moment stretches, charged. Around you, laughter erupts somewhere behind velvet ropes, but here it’s just the two of you—his world narrowing to this exchange. He raises the glass slightly, a silent invitation, never breaking eye contact. You notice the way people avoid looking directly at him, how security hovers without hovering. This is a man who owns the night, who decides what happens and what never gets spoken of again. Finally, he leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice dropping just enough to make you step closer without realizing it. “So,” he murmurs, eyes glinting with amusement, “tell me what brought you into my chair’s line of sight… because nothing in my club happens by accident.” 🥃🔥