The morning light streamed through the gray velvet curtains, casting soft shadows on the black marble floor of Lucius Draganov's bedroom. He opened his eyes slowly, as if the world were merely a servant awaiting his command. His blue eyes, sharp as blades of ice, caught the gleam of the crystal chandeliers hanging from the vaulted ceiling.
The aroma of Colombian coffee, prepared by invisible hands in the kitchen, mingled with the salty scent of the sea drifting in through the half-open balcony—a reminder of the ocean's proximity in Balneário Camboriú. Outside, the waves crashed on the shore, their murmur blending with the bustle of Avenida Atlântica. But here, at the top of a mirrored skyscraper, silence reigned supreme.
To anyone else, this would be a dreamlike morning. To Lucius, it was just another day on the throne.
He turned his head, the feather pillow molding to his movement. Beside him, a woman with hair as black as night, her flawless skin glowing under the filtered light, slept soundly. The white linen shirt he'd worn the previous night—now wrinkled and unbuttoned to the waist—clung to her body provocatively, hinting at curves that had been the focus of his attention hours earlier. The silk sheets, tangled as witnesses to a night of excess, told a story of unrestrained pleasure.
Lucius didn't bother to recall her name. Maybe Natasha, maybe Bianca. It didn't matter. She was just another piece on the chessboard of his life—a diversion he'd discard as easily as he changed cigars. But today, his mind was on a bigger game. Something greater called to him.
He stretched, the defined muscles under his pale skin flexing with precision. The sense of power coursing through his veins was as natural as breathing. The room around him was a mirror of his soul: elegant yet intimidating—every detail screaming wealth without slipping into vulgarity.
The walls displayed Basquiat and Banksy paintings, bought at auctions where he didn't blink at offering millions. The king-size bed, with its carved ebony canopy, resembled a throne. In the corner, a bronze sculpture of a roaring dragon—a gift from his father—reminded him of his bloodline. He was Lucius Draganov, heir to an underworld empire, shaped by violence, cunning, and a fortune that made kings seem like commoners.
With a crooked smile, he rose, his bare feet touching the Persian rug worth more than a beachfront apartment. He walked to the bathroom, the gold-framed mirror reflecting his figure like a living painting.
At 19, Lucius was a masterpiece sculpted by genetics and discipline. His white hair with blue streaks, artfully disheveled, framed a face with sharp features. His eyes, an almost supernatural blue, seemed to pierce the soul of anyone who dared hold his gaze too long. A dragon tattoo, with intricate scales, snaked from his right arm to his shoulder, moving with every flex of his muscles.
He ran a hand over his jaw, examining himself with the satisfaction of someone who knows they're untouchable.
"Time to dominate," he murmured, his deep voice laced with a confidence bordering on insolence.
The shower was quick, hot water cascading over his body like a submissive caress. He stepped out, a towel slung low on his hips, and chose his outfit with the precision of a master chess player.
A tailored black Armani suit, its stitching almost hand-embroidered, hugged his frame. On his wrist, a Patek Philippe Nautilus, its blue dial gleaming like his eyes. On his fingers, two gold rings with embedded rubies—a calculated touch of ostentation. Creed Aventus perfume enveloped him like an aura, leaving a trail of power in his wake.
Every gesture was a rehearsed choreography. Every choice, a statement: Lucius Draganov didn't just exist; he reigned.
In the living room, with a view of Balneário Camboriú's coastline, the woman—now awake—sat on the white leather sofa, holding a coffee cup. The sea beyond, visible through floor-to-ceiling windows, shimmered under the sun, with yachts dotting the horizon like toys of millionaires.
She looked at him with a hesitant smile, trying to gauge his mood.
"Good morning, Lucius," she said, her voice sweet but with a slight tremor, as if she knew she was treading dangerous ground.
He met her gaze for a second, his look appraising, before responding with a nod.
"Good morning," he said curtly, already pulling his phone from his pocket. He had no patience for morning games.
She opened her mouth to say more, but he cut her off with a charming smile that was more of a warning.
"Enjoy the coffee, darling. My driver will take you wherever you want."
She blinked, surprised, but nodded, understanding the message. Lucius didn't linger on farewells.
He descended in the private elevator, the ebony panel reflecting his silhouette. Outside, the sun glinted off the hood of his Bugatti Chiron, a limited-edition beast that roared as if it had a soul. He slid into the leather seat, the engine coming to life with a growl that made the building's windows vibrate.
As he drove along Avenida Atlântica, with the beach on one side and mirrored skyscrapers on the other, Lucius felt the city pulse under his command.
He had a full day ahead: a meeting with his father's empire "associates" at noon, lunch with an investor who needed convincing to relinquish a valuable plot of land, and, at night, the real stage where he shone—the casino.
The meeting, held at a seaside restaurant with a view of the horizon, was a verbal chess match. Lucius listened as the suited men—thugs disguised as businessmen—discussed money laundering and new smuggling routes, sipping a glass of Macallan 18-year-old whiskey.
"You guys overcomplicate things," he said, his voice calm but with a tone that silenced the table. "Simplify. Or I'll do it for you."
They nodded, intimidated by the 19-year-old carrying the weight of the Draganov name. He left the meeting with everything settled. As always.
Lunch was on the rooftop of a luxury hotel, where the investor—a middle-aged man with more money than courage—tried to negotiate. Lucius disarmed him with a smile and a few well-placed words, leaving him no choice but to yield.
"You're young, but you play like a veteran," the man said, laughing nervously.
Lucius merely raised his champagne flute.
"I don't play. I win."
The day unfolded like a well-rehearsed dance, every move calculated, every interaction reinforcing his place at the top.
As the sun began to set, painting the sky orange and purple over the sea, Lucius returned to his apartment to prepare for the night. He swapped the daytime suit for a navy Tom Ford, paired with a black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, exuding a relaxed aura of power. The watch and rings stayed. He lit a Cuban cigar, its bitter taste matching his mood, and drove to the Diamond Club, the pulsing heart of Balneário Camboriú's elite.
The Diamond Club wasn't just a casino—it was an underworld disguised as a palace. Hidden in the subterranean floors of a seaside hotel, it was a sanctuary for society's elite, where only those with money, power, or valuable secrets gained entry.
Lucius crossed the room like a king entering his realm. Eyes followed him: women with provocative smiles, men with envy or respect, security guards with hands near concealed weapons. He didn't need to announce himself—his presence was an event.
A dancer, a brunette with feline eyes, stepped off the stage and approached, offering him a glass of whiskey.
"Good evening, Mr. Draganov," she said, her voice honeyed, leaning closer than necessary.
Lucius took the glass, his gaze appraising her as if she were a work of art on display.
"Good evening," he replied, with a smile that promised everything and nothing.
She blushed, but he was already moving on, his focus on the poker table awaiting him.
The reserved Texas Hold'em table was the epicenter of power at the Diamond Club. Seated there were an arms dealer disguised as an oil magnate, a hotel chain heiress with more secrets than money, and a professional gambler with scars that told tales of bad bets.
Lucius sat, his stack of chips a fortress before him.
"Good evening," he said, his voice velvety but edged with irony that made the others sit up straighter. He was the predator; they, the prey.
The cards flew, and Lucius played with the precision of someone who mastered not just the game but the minds around him. He read his opponents like open books: the dealer's nervous tic, the heiress's sweaty brow, the gambler's overly tight grip on his cards. He manipulated with subtle comments, provocative smiles, pauses that made others doubt themselves.
"You're confident tonight, Diego," he said to the dealer, his tone suggesting he knew something the other didn't.
Diego laughed, but his eyes betrayed unease. Lucius smiled. He was in control, as always.
But then, a new player approached the table. A man in a dark gray suit, with short hair and a face that seemed carved from granite. He sat without ceremony, his brown eyes fixed on Lucius with a calm that was almost defiant. Something about him felt out of place—not his appearance, but the way he moved, as if the casino were merely a secondary stage.
Lucius raised an eyebrow, intrigued.
"You're a player, right?" the man asked, his voice low, with a smile that hid something more. "I think I can offer you a… more interesting game."
Lucius studied him for a moment, his confidence unshaken but tinged with a flicker of curiosity. This guy wasn't like the others.
"A game?" Lucius said, his crooked smile returning. "Alright, you seem bold. Let's play."
The man nodded, his expression serene, almost enigmatic. The cards were dealt, and the game began.
But for the first time in a long time, Lucius felt something was different.
He didn't know what. But this man seemed to know the board in a way Lucius didn't yet understand.
And for the first time, Lucius Draganov wondered if he was truly in control.