Nocturne - Enter the Game

No one defied Massimiliano De Luca and lived to tell about it. Tonight, someone was about to try. 

––––––––––

Nocturne sat sixty floors above Manhattan where its glass walls offer a panoramic view of a city that never truly slept and neither did the men who frequented this exclusive rooftop bar. Men who owned the darkness, who traded in secrets and blood, who made decisions that never saw the light of day.

The space dripped with understated wealth: polished mahogany bar, Italian leather seats, and ambient lighting that cast everyone in the most flattering shadows. Jazz, low and smoky, mingled with hushed conversations and the occasional clink of crystal glasses.

This was Massimiliano De Luca's domain. His sanctuary.

From his usual corner booth, Massimiliano De Luca surveyed the room with dark brown eyes that missed nothing. At 6 '0", he dominated any space he occupied, his athletic frame wrapped in a perfectly tailored three-piece suit that whispered of old money and new power. The scar along his jawline, which he received as a souvenir from a knife fight years ago only enhanced his dangerous appeal. While the black king chess piece tattooed on his muscular forearm remained hidden beneath Italian silk.

Massimiliano De Luca was New York's most feared mafia boss for a reason. Not just because of the empire he'd built, but because of the calculating intelligence behind that perpetual half-smirk.

Inside the Nocturne, The Baldwin brothers were finalizing a shipment deal with the Russians. Senator Caldwell was drinking more than usual. He's always getting into trouble; trouble at home or trouble in office, either way, leverage for later, he thought. Everything was as it should be.

That is until he noticed her.

She'd slipped behind the bar with quiet confidence, not a hint of nervousness or the eager-to-please attitude that new staff typically carried. She moved with the easy grace of someone who knew exactly where she belonged, even if she'd never been there before.

Massimiliano found his attention lingering. She was beautiful, striking. Standing at 5'4" and curves in all the right places. Her glowing skin kissed by the Mediterranean sun, with waves of dark hair cascading past her shoulders. But it wasn't only her beauty that caught his eye. It was her presence.

Women in his world typically broadcasted their intentions like neon signs. Their eyes obvious with either hunger, fear, desperation or ambition, or most of the time a mix of those. This one showed nothing. No nervous energy. No calculated smiles. Just cool competence with an edge he couldn't quite place.

It unsettles him, it puts him on edge.

He slid his empty glass forward, eyes still lingered on her.

Without looking up, she reached for the top-shelf whiskey, his whiskey, and poured two fingers. Two ice cubes, no more. She slid it back to him, her dark eyes finally meeting his.

"Neat, with two ice cubes," she said, voice smooth as silk but sharp as a blade. "You like your burn controlled."

Massimiliano raised a single eyebrow, a small movement that had made grown men sweat. "You learned that from a file on me?"

The corner of her mouth quirked up, not quite a smile. "You're not special. Every rich asshole drinks the same thing."

The audacity of this woman. If anyone else had spoken to him that way, they'd be picking up their teeth from the floor. Instead, he found himself intrigued. Most women either flirted shamelessly or avoided eye contact altogether. She did neither.

"I don't remember hiring you." His voice was casual, dangerous.

"That's because you didn't. Your manager Franco did." She turned away, attending to another patron with practiced efficiency.

Massimiliano watched her move through the next hour with dark fascination. He observed her keenly, noting the way she kept unwanted advances at arms' length without causing scenes, the way she commanded respect without demanding it. He returned to the bar, sliding his empty glass forward.

"Another," he said, his eyes never leaving her face.

She poured without comment, sliding the glass back with practiced precision.

"You have a name?" he asked, his tone deceptively casual.

"Tatiana."

"Italian?"

"On my father's side." A careful non-answer.

He leaned forward slightly. "When do you finish tonight?"

"When the bar closes." She met his gaze, unflinching.

"And after?"

"I go home. Alone." Her emphasis on the last word was pointed.

Massimiliano smiled, slow and predatory. "A beautiful woman like you shouldn't spend her nights alone in a city like this."

"A beautiful woman like me knows exactly how to take care of herself." She turned to another customer, dismissing him without a second glance.

Massimiliano felt a flash of irritation. Disrespectful. He returned to his booth, gesturing for Antonio to approach.

"Find out everything about the new bartender. Tatiana. I want to know who she is, where she comes from, who she knows."

Antonio nodded, stepping away to make the call.

An hour later, his phone vibrated in his pocket.

"Boss." Antonio slid into the booth across from him, his voice tight with concern. "Something's off with the new bartender."

"Tell me."

"Tatiana Hayes. Started two days ago. Background checks out, but..."

"But?"

Antonio shifted uncomfortably. "It's too clean. Five years bartending at high-end establishments. Before that, some college. No social media presence to speak of. No red flags, but no distinguishing markers either."

Massimiliano's eyes tracked her as she leaned across the bar, laughing at something an older patron said. "That's because it's fabricated."

"Want us to handle it?"

"Not yet."

He watched as a man, one of the Gambino crew's newer members, drunk and stupid, grabbing her wrist and pulling her closer. Before security could intervene, she had twisted free with practiced ease. No panic, no hesitation.

"Hands off the merchandise, sweetheart," she said, voice light but eyes cold. "Next time, you lose your fingers."

The man sputtered. "Do you know who I..."

"Someone who's about to get cut off?" She smiled sweetly. "Your call."

The man glanced toward Massimiliano's corner. When realized he was watched, he backed down immediately.

Interesting, Massimiliano thought. Tatiana Hayes. She hadn't looked for backup. Hadn't shown fear. And handled it like someone accustomed to threats far worse than handsy drunks. Who are you, Tatiana?

Across the bar, Tatiana leaned in close to a man Massimiliano didn't recognize. Mid-fifties, unremarkable suit and a forgettable face. A ghost. She angled her body to block sightlines, and exchanged words too quiet to hear. Her posture remained casual, but there was intent in every movement.

Another player. In his game.

Massimiliano took a slow sip of his whiskey, letting the burn match the irritation of unknown variables in his carefully controlled domain.

Their eyes met across the crowded room but she didn't look away. She didn't even simper or smile. Instead, she raised an almost challenging eyebrow to him. Showing him that she was unbothered by his scrutiny. Unimpressed by his power.

The night stretched into early morning, the digital clock behind the bar silently ticking past 3 AM. Manhattan's glow softened through the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city entering that rare liminal space between night and dawn. Inside the Nocturne, it's business as usual during closing time. Deals were sealed, hands were shaken, promises and threats faded into the background hum of the city below. The crowd thinned until only the die-hards remained, nursing their drinks and their secrets.

Tatiana wiped down the bar with efficient strokes, gathering glasses with quiet precision. She moved like someone who knew she was being watched but didn't care.

Massimiliano approached the bar one last time, sliding onto a stool as the final patrons filtered out.

"You don't belong here," he said, voice low enough that only she could hear.

She glanced up, amusement dancing in those hazel eyes. "And where do I belong, Mr. De Luca?"

"In my bed." His words weren't a request. They were a statement of fact, of inevitability.

She laughed, the sound genuine and cutting all at once. "Go kick rocks."

Heat flashed behind his eyes. No one spoke to him that way. No one dared. He got off his seat and grabbed her wrist in one smooth motion, his grip firm but not painful. It's a warning.

"This is my domain, bella. I always get what I want." His voice dropped lower, a dangerous purr. "Playing hard to get is a dangerous game with me."

She didn't flinch. Didn't pull away. Instead, she leaned closer, close enough that he could smell her perfume, something expensive, subtle.

"Is that supposed to scare me?" The laughter never left her eyes as she delicately peeled his fingers from her wrist, one by one. "You'll have to try harder than that, Mr. De Luca"

She stepped back, reaching for her purse beneath the bar. "I'll see you tomorrow night, Mr. De Luca."

He stood there, anger and something more primal coursing through his veins. Fucking disrespectful. She should be terrified, should be begging for forgiveness yet here she is. Defiant. Unyielding.

But as he turned to leave, he had to admit: she might be a problem worth having.

The elevator doors closed behind him with a soft chime. Antonio and Marco flanked him in perfect silence, knowing better than to speak first when that particular look darkened their boss's face.

"I want her," Massimiliano said finally, adjusting his cufflinks. "Make it happen."

"Yes, boss," Antonio responded, already mentally calculating the resources needed.

"We'll dig deeper into her background. Find pressure points."

"Yes, boss." The response was immediate, unquestioning.

––––––––––

Alone in the empty bar, Tatiana allowed herself a small, satisfied smile as she watched Massimiliano disappear into the elevator.

So predictable. So controlled. So goddamn arrogant.

She ran her fingertips over the bar top where he'd been sitting, imagining for a fleeting moment what it would feel like to slide a knife between his ribs. The fantasy was pleasant but premature.

Massimiliano De Luca was exactly as she'd expected. Exactly as she'd studied him to be. The entitled son of a former mafia boss who believed the world existed for his taking. Just like his father.

She gathered her things, switching off lights as she went. Her plan was already falling into place. Get close. Gain trust. Destroy from within.

The De Luca empire would fall, brick by blood-soaked brick. And when Massimiliano realized who she really was? When he understood that Tatiana Hayes was just a mask, that Tatiana Moretti had returned to claim what was stolen?

That would be sweeter than any revenge she could imagine.