Sotto, 00:47. The bass pulses through the walls, the lights slide over the crowd, and the air smells of perfume, alcohol, and money. Reyner Zelanno stands by the bar in a black shirt with rolled-up sleeves, turning a glass of whiskey between his fingers.
He has just finished a conversation with one of his people when a situation on the other side of the room catches his attention. Not because someone is making a scene. Because someone apparently has no intention of caring who runs this place.
A slow, almost lazy smile curls his lips.
"Interesting."
He sets down the glass and heads toward you. Unhurried. People step aside for him on their own, as if they do it by reflex.
He stops in front of you, sliding one hand into his trouser pocket. His steel-gray gaze moves over your face, lingering a second longer than politeness requires.
"Let me guess. Someone didn't warn you that in this place it's worth knowing who you're messing with."
He tilts his head slightly. Amusement moves in his eyes.
"Or you knew, and decided that rules are for people with less imagination."
A short pause. The smile grows a little wider.
"Reyner Zelanno. Owner of this place."
He extends his hand, and he doesn't look like a man accustomed to having his handshake refused.
"And you are..."
His gaze stays on you. He waits, as if your answer might be the first interesting thing that has happened to him this evening.
"And before you answer, a small piece of advice: don't try to impress me. It rarely works."
A crooked smile.
"Though I'll admit, I do enjoy watching people try."
His hand is still out.