Chapter One – Salvatore Moretti POV
The city belonged to me.
Every street, every alley, every glowing sign in the night—I owned them all, one way or another. If I didn't own the bricks, I owned the men who walked on them. If I didn't own the license, I owned the one who signed it. The gamblers lost in my casinos, the drunks drowned in my clubs, the desperate clung to loans they could never repay. The money always flowed upward, steady as a river, until it reached my hands.
And with money came fear.
Fear was worth more than loyalty. Loyalty could be bought, bent, broken. Men lied about loyalty, swore on their mothers and their gods, and then turned the moment temptation struck. But fear—fear never lied. It gripped a man's spine and squeezed until he bent. Fear kept the city mine.
I sat in the penthouse office of the Moretti Hotel, my glass of bourbon resting on the edge of my desk, the amber liquid catching the glow of the city lights. Below me, the streets stretched wide and glittering, a kingdom of concrete and sin. A king did not ask for respect—he demanded it. And when it wasn't given, he took it in blood.
The sound of footsteps pulled me from my thoughts.
Raffaele Mancini entered without knocking. My underboss. My shadow. He wore a sharp black suit, shoulders broad as a fortress, eyes that had seen too much and never flinched. Raffaele and I had grown up on the same streets, fought the same battles, buried the same enemies. If there was one man in this world I could rely on, it was him. He didn't need to knock. He'd earned the right to walk into any room I was in.
"They're here," he said.
I nodded, rising slowly. My jacket settled across my shoulders like armor. Together, we walked down the corridor, two shadows moving over marble floors polished with money and power.
The private lounge was dimly lit, smoke curling in lazy trails toward the chandeliers. Three men waited there, sitting stiffly on leather couches. Dock merchants, small players who fancied themselves wolves when they were little more than dogs. They'd been moving crates through the docks, slipping deals behind my back. They thought they were clever.
They weren't.
The moment I entered, silence swallowed the room. The three stood quickly, nervous smiles plastered to their faces, sweat beading at their temples.
"Sit," I ordered.
They obeyed. I didn't sit with them. I remained standing, looming above them the way a god might judge mortals.
"You've been busy," I said, my voice smooth as the bourbon I had just swallowed. "Moving crates. Working late nights. Whispering deals you thought I wouldn't hear about."
One of them opened his mouth. I lifted a hand, and his words died on his tongue.
"Everything in this city flows through me," I continued. "Every coin, every shipment, every whisper. Did you forget that?"
"No, Signore," the man stammered. "We—we meant no disrespect. It was—"
"Disrespect," I cut him off, "is breathing in my city without paying me for the air. You didn't just disrespect me. You insulted the Moretti name."
Fear thickened the air, clinging to them like sweat. I let it linger until it strangled them. Then I snapped my fingers.
Raffaele moved like a shadow. One flash of steel. One wet gasp. One man collapsed forward, clutching at the red bloom spreading across his throat. Blood sprayed across the expensive carpet. His gurgles filled the silence for only a moment before they began to fade.
The other two sat frozen, pale as corpses already laid in their coffins.
I crouched in front of them, my suit untouched, my eyes sharp.
"Do you see now?" I asked softly. "This is not business. This is survival. You live because I allow it. You breathe because I don't take it from you. Understand?"
They nodded so fast their necks could have snapped. Promises, apologies, oaths of loyalty spilled from trembling lips. I stood, disgust curling in my chest.
"Raffaele," I said. "Clean this up. And make sure the docks understand. No one moves without my blessing."
"Yes, Boss."
I turned and left the room. Behind me, the gurgling stopped. My shoes clicked against marble, steady, measured. The only sound that mattered.
---
Back in my office, I poured another drink. My reflection stared back at me in the glass wall—sharp jaw, dark eyes, the face of a man who had killed without hesitation, and would kill again before the night ended if I needed to.
Love was weakness. Compassion was weakness. I had learned that lesson in blood.
He remembered the day it began.
Salvatore was seventeen the first time his father handed him a gun.
"You're a Moretti," his father said, voice cold as the barrel of the weapon. "And Morettis don't ask for respect. They take it."
The man tied to the chair across the room had betrayed the family. Salvatore didn't even know his name. Names didn't matter. Only loyalty.
"Do it," his father ordered.
His hands trembled. His heart raced. But he raised the gun and pulled the trigger.
The sound was deafening. The man slumped forward, lifeless. Smoke filled his lungs. Blood stained his shoes. His father's heavy hand clapped down on his shoulder.
"Now," his father said, "you are one of us."
That night, something inside him died. And something far darker was born.
From that moment, Salvatore swore never to believe in love. Love hadn't saved the man in the chair. Love didn't shield anyone in their world. Love made you hesitate—and hesitation got you killed.
He had sworn it then, and he swore it still. He would never let love touch him.
---
The intercom on my desk buzzed.
"Boss," Raffaele's voice came steady as ever. "Vincenzo is here."
My brows lifted. A name I knew well.
Vincenzo Greco. Stubborn. Loudmouthed. A man who hated our world but lived in its shadow nonetheless. He wasn't one of us, but he wasn't far enough to escape my orbit either.
"Send him in," I said.
Moments later, the door opened. Vincenzo walked in, broad-shouldered, jaw clenched, eyes burning with something between anger and desperation.
"Moretti," he greeted stiffly.
"Vincenzo." I gestured toward the chair across from me. "Sit."
He hesitated before lowering himself into the seat. Unlike most men, his eyes never flinched away from mine. I admired that, in a way.
"You've been quiet lately," I said casually, pouring bourbon into two glasses. I slid one toward him. He didn't touch it.
"I didn't come to drink," he muttered.
"Then why are you here?"
His jaw worked. "To remind you my family is not part of your business. We work hard. We keep clean. Leave us out of your games."
I leaned back, studying him. Brave words. Empty words. Everyone in this city was part of my business. Whether they liked it or not.
"Everything in this city is my business," I said softly. "Even yours."
"I don't want your protection. I don't want your money. I don't want your bloodstained shadow over my family."
I smirked. "You think you get to choose?"
His fists clenched tight against the desk. "If anything happens to them—if you so much as breathe near them—"
I laughed. Low, sharp, humorless. "Careful, Vincenzo. You're in my house. Don't make threats you can't keep."
He shot to his feet, eyes blazing. For a heartbeat, I thought he might strike me. But he didn't. He leaned forward instead, his voice rough with fury.
"You destroy everything you touch," Vincenzo said. "Stay away from mine."
With that, he turned and stormed out, leaving the door swinging behind him.
I sat back, sipping my bourbon, his words echoing in the silence.
Stay away from mine.
I chuckled to myself. Men like Vincenzo thought they could protect their families with stubbornness alone. They didn't understand. Sooner or later, everything in this city fell into my orbit. Everything.
And if I wanted it, nothing would stop me from taking it.
---
Later that night, Raffaele returned.
"What do you think of Vincenzo Greco?" I asked.
Raffaele shrugged. "Hot-headed. Protective. Dangerous if provoked."
"Protective of what, exactly?" I asked, swirling the last of my bourbon.
"Family," Raffaele answered simply. "That's all he's got."
I turned back toward the glass wall, the city glowing beneath me like a jewel I already owned.
Family. The one thing that could make even strong men weak.
I didn't have that weakness.
At least, that's what i believed