The air above Via Roma always smelled faintly of salt and diesel — the kind of perfume only a port city could wear proudly. Cagliari glimmered in the distance, its sandstone buildings catching the fading gold of the sun, while the harbor lights began to flicker alive one by one.
Inside Luce Nera, the city's newest nightclub, the hum of anticipation was already building. Technicians tested the lights, a DJ tuned a mixer, and the low thump of bass bled through the floor like a heartbeat. Behind the bar, Clara De Santis was rearranging bottles for the third time, aligning them so that the labels faced outward in perfect rows.
"You're nesting again," said Giulia, appearing in the doorway that led from the office. She leaned against the frame, arms crossed, a half-smile tugging at her lips. "When you start organizing the gin bottles by country, it means you're nervous."
Clara turned, mock-offended. "I'm not nervous. I'm focused. There's a difference."
"Focused," Giulia repeated. "That's what we're calling it now."
Clara shot her a look but couldn't suppress a small laugh. Giulia crossed the room and kissed her — a soft, unhurried brush of lips that felt more like grounding than affection.
"I just want tonight to go right," Clara murmured. "The inspectors, the permits, the press — they all said we'd never open on time. And look at us now."
Giulia smiled but didn't answer. She glanced around the club — the curved black bar, the shimmering dance floor, the cascading wall of glass that looked out toward the marina. Everything about Luce Nera screamed elegance and control, yet beneath its beauty ran the faint pulse of something darker.
They both knew it.
The nightclub wasn't really theirs. Not completely.
It belonged, on paper, to a company linked to Enzo Serra, a mid-level figure in Sardinia's sprawling criminal network — the kind of man who never raised his voice but made people disappear with a single phone call. Luce Nera was meant to be a front, a way to wash dirty money through clean champagne and ticket sales. Giulia knew that. Clara knew that too.
The problem was, Clara had started to care too much.
When Enzo first suggested the project, Giulia had imagined it would be simple: they'd sign the papers, collect a cut, and keep their heads down. But Clara had thrown herself into it — designing menus, booking live DJs, hiring locals. She talked about building community, about giving the city something beautiful.
And now, as the doors prepared to open for the club's third weekend, Luce Nera was actually succeeding — too much, maybe.
Giulia stepped behind the bar, watching Clara polish a glass until it gleamed. "Enzo's man came by earlier," she said quietly. "He wants to meet tomorrow. Says there's been… a delay with some transfers."
Clara froze. "A delay?"
Giulia nodded. "He didn't say more. But he wants numbers by Friday."
Clara's jaw tightened. "We just paid them. What more do they want?"
Giulia gave a small, weary shrug. "It's never enough. You know that."
A silence stretched between them, heavy and familiar. From the main floor, the DJ tested a bass drop that rattled the glasses. Clara exhaled and set the glass down.
"I didn't build this place just to funnel his money," she said. "This — this club — it means something. Look around. People are coming here because they want to. Not because they're told to."
Giulia leaned closer, lowering her voice. "Clara. I love that you believe in this. I do. But don't forget what it is. What we are."
Clara met her eyes, defiant but trembling. "Maybe we could change that. Make it real. Cut ties. Go clean."
Giulia almost laughed — almost. "And what do we tell Serra? 'Sorry, we found integrity'? He'd send flowers to our funeral."
Before Clara could reply, the door at the front opened and a gust of night air swept in. The crowd had arrived — sleek, young, and hungry for escape. Clara straightened, putting on her practiced smile, while Giulia moved toward the entryway to handle security.
Within an hour, Luce Nera was alive. Lights strobed through violet haze, the floor throbbed with rhythm, and laughter spilled out into the street. Clara moved through it all like a conductor — greeting regulars, adjusting playlists, tasting cocktails. She looked radiant.
Giulia watched her from the balcony, heart aching.
This was what she loved about Clara: her fire, her refusal to treat anything as meaningless. But that same fire was going to get them both burned.
Near midnight, as the first rush of guests began to ebb, a man in a pale suit appeared at the bar. Luca Verri, Enzo Serra's errand boy — polite, clean-cut, and poisonous.
"Signora De Santis," he greeted, his smile razor-thin. "Beautiful night. Business looks good."
Clara kept her tone neutral. "We're steady."
He leaned closer. "Enzo wants to see you both tomorrow. Noon. His villa in Monte Urpinu."
Giulia appeared at Clara's side before she could answer. "We'll be there."
Luca smiled again — not at them, but through them — and turned to leave.
As the crowd surged again and the music swelled, Clara felt a chill crawl up her spine. She looked at Giulia, who squeezed her hand hard under the counter.
The beat of the music felt different now — faster, heavier — like a warning dressed up as rhythm.
For the first time, Clara wondered if Luce Nera might really be her prison disguised as a dream.