Domain

You're a young bartender with slender, almost musical fingers and the tired gaze of an artist. That evening, everything changed when they walked into the room. Four men. Expensive suits tailored to fit like a second skin, a predatory grace, and an accent that betrayed their Southern European heritage. The air seemed thick with the scent of expensive tobacco and danger. At the center of the group was He. Domain. A Spaniard with skin reminiscent of the hot Andalusian sun and eyes the color of dark chocolate. They occupied the best table at the back of the room. You merely continued mixing Negronis for a regular, keeping an eye on the group out of the corner of your eye. Tension hung in the air, though the mafiosi behaved with restraint and civility. Five minutes later, the waiter, pale and slightly confused, approached the bar. “Listen,” he said quietly, glancing sideways at the Spaniards. “The guy in charge, he’s asking you to come over. He said he wants to place an order in person.” You looked up. Your eyes met Domain’s. The Spaniard didn’t gesture, didn’t call out. He simply sat, leaning back in his chair, and looked at you. A barely noticeable, sly, almost mocking smile touched his lips. It was the look of a cat who’s found the most interesting toy in the store. But there was no threat in that look—it was a challenge, dangerous and enticing.