Chapter Two – Salvatore POV
Mornings weren't mornings for me—they were just the hours when the streets cooled and the lights dimmed. I sat in the master suite of the Moretti Hotel with my second cup of coffee, staring at nothing. I hadn't had a proper night's sleep in over three days. Chronic insomnia—that's what they called it. A sickness of the mind. My mind never shut down. It raced, clawed, replayed faces, debts, and blood.
I hated the pills. Hated swallowing weakness just to get an hour of silence. Lorenzo Vitale, my therapist, insisted I needed them. He kept calling, lecturing me about rest and balance, like I was some lost patient instead of the man who owned this city. Sometimes I thought of ways to shut him up forever. But Marcello wouldn't allow it. He said men like Vitale served their purpose.
A man like me doesn't deserve peace anyway.
The phone on my desk buzzed.
"Boss," Raffaele's voice came through. "The capos are assembled."
I set the cup down and straightened my jacket. The day's first battle waited.
---
The boardroom of the Moretti Hotel gleamed with wealth—mahogany table polished to a mirror shine, a chandelier glittering like a crown, and wide windows that looked down on the city. One by one, the capos sat waiting, their shoulders stiff, their eyes sharp. They carried their pieces of the empire like offerings to a god.
Salvatore entered last. The room shifted the moment he walked in—power moved with him, quiet but suffocating. Raffaele closed the doors behind them. Silence fell.
"I trust you've all brought me good news," I said, voice even but edged with steel.
Reports came quickly—gambling houses, smuggling routes, collections. Money was flowing, but money was never the problem. The problem was loyalty.
Marco, a heavyset man sweating through his collar, cleared his throat. "Boss… there's talk. The Rossis—"
The name alone poisoned the room.
"They've been whispering at the docks," Marco continued. "Trying to lure men. Promising bigger cuts."
My gaze slid toward Matteo Riccardi, the capo responsible for docks , casino , smuggling of goods, loans and collections. He twitched, avoiding my eyes. That told me enough.
"You let rats crawl into your walls?" My voice dropped to a quiet that weighed heavier than a shout.
Matteo stammered, "I—I didn't—"
My palm slammed against the table. The sound cracked like a gunshot. Every man flinched.
"There are no excuses," I said. "Find out who spoke to them. Bring them to me."
Matteo nodded furiously, his face pale.
Raffaele leaned forward, calm where others trembled. "I'll handle the clean-up here, Boss. You've got business overseas."
That was true. Bigger moves waited beyond Italy.
---
By evening, I was in the back of a black sedan, Marcello Esposito seated beside me.
Marcello was not like Raffaele. Where Raffaele's power came from fire and fists, Marcello's came from silence and thought. He was my consigliere, my advisor—the man who whispered strategies while others roared about bullets. Silver hair, sharp eyes, a mind that never slept. Ice where Raffaele was flame.
"You trust Raffaele to keep order while we're gone?" Marcello asked as the car slipped through traffic.
"I trust him to bleed the streets dry if someone tests him," I said. "Fear will hold until I return."
"And London?"
I lit a cigarette, inhaled, exhaled slowly. "London is where we remind Enzo De Luca who he answers to."
Marcello's thin smile didn't reach his eyes. "He already knows. He just likes to make you prove it."
---
The flight was private. No waiting, no questions. Just a jet fueled by money and silence. Marcello reviewed documents while I stared out the window at clouds drifting like ghosts.
Enzo De Luca—my hitman stationed in London. A beast in human form. Brutal, efficient, loyal—but men like him respected only one thing: blood. Loyalty wasn't spoken, it was carved into the bones of those who betrayed.
By the time we landed, the London sky was heavy with rain. Black cars awaited. We rode through slick streets to a warehouse by the Thames, a place built for shadows and screams.
Enzo De Luca was already there. Tall, scarred, his presence radiated violence. His eyes met mine and lit up—not with warmth, but with the recognition of predators.
"Boss," he rasped, voice like gravel. "London misses you."
"I don't miss it," I replied coldly. "Show me what's been happening."
The meeting was sharp and clinical. Weapons shipments, routes through the Channel, crates disguised as electronics. Everything looked clean, but Enzo's tone carried a warning.
"The Rossis are reaching farther than you think," he said. "Word is, they're talking to outsiders. Albanians, maybe. Men with ambition."
Marcello scribbled notes with steady hands.
"They'll learn," I said.
And then the shooting started.
---
Glass shattered, bullets screamed through the warehouse. Men dove for cover as the air filled with chaos.
"Down!" Enzo barked, drawing his gun. Marcello pulled me behind a steel crate, but not fast enough. Fire tore through my side.
For a moment, all I heard was the ringing in my ears. Pain seared, hot and merciless. My shirt darkened with blood.
I clenched my jaw, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a scream. A Moretti doesn't cry out. A Moretti bleeds in silence.
Enzo's gun roared back, each shot deliberate, deadly. Marcello pressed his hand to my side, his movements precise even as bullets chipped the concrete.
"They thought they could cut me down like a dog," I muttered through my teeth. "They'll regret it."
The attackers fled into the rain, leaving silence and broken glass.
Marcello crouched over me, his voice calm. "It's not fatal. You'll live."
"I know," I said, forcing myself upright. The pain burned, but weakness was worse than death.
Enzo's jaw tightened. "They knew you were here. Someone talked."
"Find out who," I ordered, blood staining my hand. "Tear the city apart if you have to."
---
Marcello drove fast through London's wet streets. The car smelled of smoke and iron. He didn't take me to a hospital—too many questions. He took me to a clinic. Private, hidden, discreet. A place that looks like it about to fall apart.
The halls were sterile, the air sharp with antiseptic. It was the opposite of my world, yet just as cold.
Nurses scattered at the sight of me—bloodied, unbowed, my presence filling the space even as I staggered. Men like me didn't belong in places of healing. But money bent the rules.
They led me into a small examination room. Marcello stood at the door, stone-faced. Enzo prowled the hall like a wolf with blood on his teeth.
Then she entered, everyone kept calling out her name .
Isabella Romano.
A young doctor, dark hair pulled back, eyes sharp with focus. She didn't ask questions. She didn't care about my physical appearance,She saw the wound, the blood, the fury that clung to me like smoke—and she worked.
Her hands were steady as she pressed gauze to my side. No hesitation. No fear in her movements. She smelled of soap, clean and clinical, not perfume. My blood stained her gloves, but she didn't flinch. That alone told me she'd seen violence before.
"The bullet went clean through," she said briskly. "No organ damage. You'll need stitches, rest, and to avoid tearing it open again."
Rest. I almost laughed. Rest was a luxury I didn't have.
Marcello asked the questions—he always did. Recovery time. Risks. What I could and couldn't do. Isabella answered without looking at me. Her focus stayed on the wound, on her work.
I studied her the way I studied everyone who crossed my path. Friend. Foe. Pawn. Her calm made her different. Most people trembled in my presence. She didn't. Maybe she was afraid and hid it well. Or maybe she wasn't afraid at all.
When she finished, she stripped off her gloves and finally met my eyes. "You'll live," she said simply.
Her gaze was unreadable. No flattery. No fear. Just a fact.
Marcello's voice cut through the silence. "We should leave as soon as you can walk."
I pulled my jacket back on, ignoring the fire in my side. "We'll leave when I say."
Even injured, my voice carried command. Blood might slow me, but it did not weaken me.
I rose to my feet, steady, unyielding. My eyes cut once more toward Isabella Romano—not out of softness, but calculation.
Everyone who entered my orbit was either a weapon or a weakness.
Time would decide which one she was.