Early autumn.
Dawn in Genoa.
The rain over the harbor had eased,
leaving the sea still as gray glass.
Luca Belloni. Twenty-nine.
Tailored black shirt and coat.
On his left wrist,
a Patek Philippe throwing off a glint
colder than the water.
The "Runaway Chariot" in his hands was
now thundering across continents.
Smart Pill – The Crown AboveIn Hong Kong and Singapore,
Smart Pill had already become the
"god's capsule," offered only to the invited.
Now the stage was widening—to the Americas.
Penthouse parties in New York,
closed-door lobbies in Washington,
oceanfront mansions in Los Angeles—
each gathering had a crystal tray
holding small silver capsules.
One dose turned a man into
a potential monster for exactly thirty-six hours.
Eyes losing focus yet still calculating.
Smiles that clenched tighter around power.
Ivy League secret societies
swallowed them during exam week.
Certain military intelligence lines
used them on overseas ops.
All they needed was simple—
a single burst of sleepless focus
and ruthless decision.
The price: absolute loyalty.
Belloni Blue – The Bridle Beneath
Belloni Blue was cruder.
Secret casinos in Paris, Monaco, Berlin.
In the VIP room's "basic options" menu,
small bottles were listed not by name, but by color.
When the blue liquid hit the glass,
expensive dresses and tuxedos unraveled,
leaving only skin and appetite.
In the prostitution network,
Blue wasn't an option—it was the rule.
Man or woman,
the moment it hit their tongue,
faces blurred, sensation sharpened.
From that instant, the body betrayed its owner.
Tools of Power
The two chariots didn't just haul stacks of cash.
They were shield and sword.
With the money, Luca bought
— Six villas dotted along the Mediterranean coast.
— A lab armed with the latest tech.
— A security web fine as spider silk.
— Streets blanketed with watchers and cameras.
And a third stage
—politics.
International Youth Political Network
Out front: grooming the next generation of leaders.
Underneath: a banquet of deals and quiet vows.
As a director,
Luca sat at the same tables as rising politicians
from every continent.
Instead of handshakes,
there were slim envelopes.
Instead of wine, rose-colored temptation.
What he offered wasn't a drug—it was a key.
And anyone who took it never knocked on Belloni's door.
They were already inside.