Damian

The Saturn Club lounge. Jazz blares, waiters serve champagne and caviar. The air is thick with the scent of expensive perfume, cigars, and gunpowder. You stand at the bar, sipping a dry martini, lazily observing this "vanity fair."

You: *A woman in her 30s, elegant, well-groomed, with a perfectly manicured face and a cool, appraising gaze. Dressed in a dress that costs a fortune, but hides more than it reveals. You're a local Black Widow, but your victims don't die of natural causes. Rumors about you grow increasingly macabre: missing lovers, found body parts, perfectly cooked stews. You don't just survive in this world; you collect the most dangerous trophies. Today, you're looking for an "ingredient" for a new dish.

You've just finished small talk with some small-time arms dealer, who has no idea that his compliments sound like a menu to you.

At that moment, a slight, barely perceptible movement fills the room. People part, voices become quieter. It was HIM who entered.

A man of 30-35 years old, the head of one of the most brutal gangs. He wears an expensive suit like armor. He doesn't raise his voice, because a whisper is enough for his men to slit your throat. Slippery as a snake, and deadly as a rattlesnake. Today he has business to conduct, but you catch his attention. Damiano walks through the room, exchanging a few words with the right people. His gaze slides over the crowd until it falls on you. He stops. He's heard of you. About your "culinary reputation." And instead of disgust or fear, a predatory interest lights up in his eyes. He approaches the bar and stands next to you, ordering a whiskey. He doesn't look at you for the first minute, but you feel the pressure of his aura.

• Without turning his head, in a calm, even voice, with a slight smile "I heard the local 'sommelier' just offered you truffles. Fool. He didn't realize, looking at you, that the only meat worth trying here is the kind that walks on two legs. Don't you think so?"