Djaany_x_milioni_prada_prod_by_andy_golden_offi... File

But the "Milioni" lifestyle has a weight that leather and silk can’t support. One rainy Tuesday, parked in a matte-black sedan, Luka looked at his reflection in the rearview mirror. Behind the designer frames, his eyes looked ancient. He had the car, the brand, and the respect, but he realized he hadn't slept without a hand on a weapon in three years.

Luka looked at the bag, then back at the city skyline. They were dressed in the finest threads money could buy, but as the sirens began to wail in the distance, he realized they weren't masters of the city. They were just its most expensive prisoners. The Prada didn't make them untouchable; it just made them easier to spot in the dark. djaany_x_milioni_prada_prod_by_andy_golden_offi...

"We made it," Djaany said, tossing a heavy duffel bag into the backseat. But the "Milioni" lifestyle has a weight that

Andy Golden’s beat hummed through the speakers—a cold, metallic rhythm that felt like the pulse of the city itself. It was the sound of a machine that never stopped eating. He had the car, the brand, and the

Luka didn't care about the fabric; he cared about what the fabric hid. In the dimly lit corridors of the city's outskirts, the logo on his chest wasn't a fashion statement—it was a shield. It told the world he was no longer the kid who shared a single room with three brothers. It told his rivals that his pockets were as heavy as his reputation.

—the word echoed in his head like a mantra. Every deal brokered under the flicker of dying streetlights was a step closer to that magic number. He and his partner, Djaany, moved like ghosts through the nightlife. While others were blinded by the strobes and the bass, they were watching the exits, counting the players, and calculating the risks.