The phone buzzed once.
Vincenzo Moretti barely spared it a glance, his fingers idly swirling the golden liquid in his crystal glass. The dim light caught the amber hues, refracting a soft glow onto his fingers—steady, controlled. The soft clink of ice against the rim blended with the distant hum of the city below. Across from him, Marco leaned back in his seat, one brow slightly raised, though he said nothing.
A second buzz. Then a third. Persistent.
With a quiet exhale, Vincenzo set the glass down and reached for the phone, pressing it to his ear.
"Moretti." His voice was smooth, deliberate. Unrushed. The kind of voice that made men listen.
A low chuckle rumbled through the receiver, slow and amused. "Now, now, Vincenzo… that was art."
Vincenzo's fingers drummed against the leather armrest of his chair, his eyes darkening slightly with recognition. A shadow flickered through them—a brief, sharp glint of interest. "Alessia's teacher," he murmured.
"The very same," the man replied, voice dripping with approval. "I must say, your little digital concerto in Florence was a masterpiece. The confusion, the misdirection—chaos itself took notes. It was messy yet refined. A rare feat."
Vincenzo smirked, reaching for his drink once more. He took a slow sip, savoring the burn before speaking. His posture remained loose, but the smirk didn't quite reach his eyes. "Flattery?" he mused. "That's not your style. What do you want?"
A chuckle. "On the contrary, I have something for you. A token of appreciation, let's call it."
Vincenzo leaned forward slightly, the faintest flicker of intrigue in his gaze. Not quite surprise. Just enough curiosity to let the caller know he was listening. "Go on."
"There's an accountant. A rather unremarkable man on paper, but in reality? He's the financial glue holding together more than a few powerful players. He launders money for politicians, brokers silent deals for moguls, and—most interestingly—has a close friend in Serbia, another accountant who manages some of the most delicate assets in Eastern Europe."
Vincenzo's grip on his glass tightened slightly. Just for a second. Barely noticeable. But Marco caught it. A frontman.
"Exactly," the teacher confirmed as if reading his mind. "And he'll be attending a very exclusive gathering soon, surrounded by the kind of men who decide economies over caviar and opera."
Marco, who had been silently listening, now leaned in, his posture sharpening. His hands came together, fingertips pressing lightly against each other—a habit of his when something was worth considering.
Vincenzo exhaled slowly through his nose, a smirk curling at the edge of his lips. "And where, exactly, will this gathering be?"
"A little soirée at the La Fenice Opera House in Venice. Invite-only, of course, but I have no doubt you'll find your way in."
Vincenzo tilted his head, swirling the last of his whiskey. The ice clinked softly, the sound barely audible over the distant city hum. He was already thinking three steps ahead. "You know me well."
"Better than you think, Vincenzo." The teacher's voice took on a knowing edge. A subtle challenge. "Consider this a reward for your artistry. Just don't disappoint me—I expect something equally spectacular in return."
The line went dead.
Vincenzo remained still for a moment, the quiet hum of the city below filling the space. The silence between him and Marco wasn't empty. It was charged, brimming with unspoken calculations. Then, he placed the phone down with a soft click.
Marco exhaled, his fingers lacing together. "This is a lead."
Vincenzo nodded, his mind already working. His smirk was there, but his eyes were elsewhere—seeing possibilities, outcomes, contingencies. "And a good one."
A moment of silence stretched between them before Marco leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees. His tone was casual, but his gaze was sharp. "So, what's the play?"
Vincenzo's smirk deepened, the glint in his eyes unmistakable.
His voice, when it came, was velvet wrapped around steel.
"We go to the opera."
---
Securing the Invitations
The air in Vincenzo Moretti's penthouse was thick with focus. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city pulsed with life, but neither he nor Marco paid it any mind.
On the coffee table between them, a slim dossier lay open. Names, affiliations, financial holdings—details about the elite gathering at La Fenice.
The opera house was hosting an intimate event, exclusive to an echelon of society where power was currency and influence was law. Invitations were personal, extended only to individuals with impeccable credentials or dangerous influence.
Marco tapped his knuckle against his jaw. The rhythm was thoughtful, measured. "We need in." His voice was steady but laced with calculation. "Getting one invite is already a challenge, but two?" He exhaled sharply. "That's going to take some work."
Vincenzo leaned back, amusement flickering in his gaze. Not arrogance. Amusement. As if the challenge was an old, familiar game. "Then we get to work."
---
Step One: The Broker's Delivery
By morning, a leather envelope rested on Vincenzo's desk, the wax seal pressed with a crest that could fool even the most scrutinizing eyes. Inside, a custom invitation bore the name Luca Valenti—a fabricated identity Vincenzo had cultivated years ago.
Luca Valenti was the heir to a lesser-known, yet profitable, European holding company. Clean on paper. Real estate, logistics, offshore ventures—just enough to suggest wealth without drawing attention.
That was Vincenzo's way in.
Marco, however, needed something different.
And that's where Step Two came in.
---
Step Two: The Casino Game
The casino was a private affair, tucked away in a villa outside Venice. No cameras. No questions.
Marco adjusted his cufflinks as he stepped inside, his suit sharp, his expression unreadable. Every movement was deliberate. A man who didn't need to prove he belonged. A poker table awaited, the players already seated—men with deep pockets and deeper egos.
Arturo De Rossi sat across from him. A mid-level investment broker, comfortable in legal markets but knee-deep in the illicit. He wasn't attending the opera himself, but he had connections. The kind Marco needed.
The game began.
Arturo played aggressively. Reckless, impatient. Marco played the opposite, reading him like a book. His gaze flickered, not just watching the cards, but the man behind them—the micro-expressions, the tension in his jaw, the twitch of his fingers.
When the final hand was dealt, Arturo's fingers tapped against his cards. His eyes flickered between them and Marco's face, searching for an answer.
Marco remained still. Stillness was power. It unsettled men like Arturo. Calculated. A predator in a tailored suit.
"All in." His voice was smooth.
Arturo hesitated. His Adam's apple bobbed. A split-second tell. He knows I've got him. But greed won out.
"I'll call."
Marco turned over his hand.
A straight flush.
Arturo exhaled sharply, his face shifting from disbelief to frustration. The loss wasn't just money—it was pride.
Marco leaned forward slightly, his voice calm. "I hear you have connections at La Fenice."
Arturo stiffened. "And?"
"You're getting me in."
Arturo's jaw tightened, but the reality was already settling in. There was no fight left in his eyes. Only resignation.
"…Fine."
Marco smirked, pocketing his winnings without another word.
---
Back in Milan, the laptop screen glowed between them, displaying live stock charts—real, shifting numbers, but numbers Vincenzo controlled.
Vincenzo poured himself a drink, watching the flickering data as if it were a symphony. "We're going to use my stock portfolio."
Marco's smirk was instant. "Ah. We make them chase the opportunity."
"We leak the right information—subtle, believable—about a sudden surge in value."
Marco leaned back, rolling his wrist. "I go in first. Casually mention an interesting opportunity. Something high-value, just exclusive enough to make them desperate."
Vincenzo nodded, a slow, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "High society thrives on whispers."
Marco exhaled. "And if the accountant doesn't take the bait?"
Vincenzo took a slow sip of whiskey, gaze unwavering.
"Then we make sure he does."