Chapter 1 - The spilled champagne
The grand ballroom of the five-star hotel was bathed in bright, cinematic light, radiating a warm, golden hue that caught the edge of every crystal chandelier. It was the charity gala of the decade, a gathering of the city’s most elite circles. The room was filled with the soft murmur of crisp American accents, the clinking of fine glass, and the rustle of expensive fabrics. Walking quietly through the crowd was Sylvester Stallone. Despite the luxury around him, he wore a simple, unbranded dark suit. He was a legendary mafia boss, a man deeply muscular, rugged, and battle-hardened. Many believed he had disappeared years ago, swallowed by the underworld. He moved with a frighteningly calm, deeply masculine presence, his fair skin catching the bright light as he headed toward the VIP table.
Standing in his path was Vivienne Cross. She was a wealthy, glamorous socialite, forty years old but possessing an ageless, arrogant elegance. Her fair, rosy complexion contrasted sharply with her luxurious crimson evening gown. Diamonds sparkled at her ears and wrists as she stepped directly in front of him. She picked up a full glass of expensive champagne from a passing silver tray. Without breaking eye contact, she deliberately tilted the glass, pouring the bubbling liquid entirely over his dark jacket.
"Know your place and wait outside!" Vivienne smirked, her voice cutting through the soft music.
Sylvester Stallone did not flinch. He calmly removed his soaked jacket, folding it over his arm. He looked at her, his rugged face showing absolutely no emotion. Around them, a few wealthy guests pointed and laughed, their fair faces flushed with the thrill of high-society drama.
Vivienne raised her hand, her diamond bracelet flashing, and pointed sharply toward the service corridor. "Get out before you embarrass me!"
The silence that followed was heavy. Suddenly, with a speed that defied his calm demeanor, Sylvester Stallone delivered a hard, open-handed slap across Vivienne’s face. The impact spun her to the side. She lost her balance on her high heels and crashed directly into a massive decorative flower arrangement. The heavy ceramic vase shattered loudly, sending bright lilies, roses, and broken pieces scattering everywhere across the polished floor. The entire ballroom fell into an instant, breathless silence.
From the edge of the room, the hotel manager, a fifty-two-year-old man in a formal black suit and pristine white gloves, hurried forward. He carried a leather-bound folder. But instead of calling security to stop the intruder, the manager stopped inches from Sylvester, bowed respectfully, and extended the folder toward him.
"Welcome back, Mr. Sylvester Stallone," the manager said clearly.
Sylvester slowly looked around the stunned room. In the shadows of the exits, several men in dark suits stepped forward, standing at strict attention. He took the folder from the manager and tossed it onto the floor, right in front of Vivienne, who was still sitting on the ground clutching her rosy cheek in shock.
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"Take a look at what your grandmother sent you," Sylvester said coldly.
Vivienne’s arrogant expression instantly vanished. She looked down at the spilled papers. Her face filled with absolute, paralyzing fear as she saw a single photograph of a child she thought had died thirty years ago.
