The Don's Weakness
1285 Words
The Wolf and the Blade
> The first time Elena Cruz saw Vincent Moretti, he was covered in blood and smiling.
Not a soft smile. A wolf’s grin—cold, unreadable, charming enough to ruin you.
“You're late,” he said, adjusting the cuffs of his tailored jacket as if he hadn’t just walked out of a double homicide scene.
She didn’t flinch.
“You're lucky I came at all.”
His eyes—grey like smoke—scanned her from heel to collarbone. Not like a man appreciating a woman, but like a predator assessing a threat.
“I hear you don’t lose cases.”
“Only when I care,” she said.
He laughed, low and dangerous. “You’ll care about this one, Counsellor.”
She stepped closer, heels echoing on the marble floor of the Moretti estate.
“Why’s that?”
“Because if I go down,” he said, voice smooth as poison, “I’m taking everyone with me. Starting with you.”
Lawyer, Meet Monster
The Moretti estate didn’t feel like a home.
It felt like a fortress—iron gates, glass walls, men with guns pretending to be staff. Elena had defended killers before. But this? This was the lion’s den.
Vincent poured two glasses of bourbon and handed her one without asking. She didn’t drink from it.
“I don’t touch anything without knowing what’s in it,” she said.
He raised an eyebrow. “Smart. Paranoia keeps people alive.”
“So does knowing when to run.”
He stepped closer. “Will you run, Elena?”
She held her ground. “Depends. Are you guilty?”
He smirked. “Of many things. Not that one.”
She opened her briefcase, pulling out the police report, her voice steady. “Two bodies. One eyewitness. You were at the scene. Blood on your hands. No alibi.”
“No verifiable alibi,” he corrected, taking a sip of his drink.
“You think you’re untouchable.”
“I know I am.”
He leaned in, voice a whisper.
“Unless... you touch me.”
The words hung in the space between them—dangerous, charged.
She hated that her heart skipped. Hated more than he noticed.
---
Later That Night
Back in her penthouse, Elena couldn’t sleep.
She kept replaying the conversation, the way his eyes never blinked, the way he said her name like a promise—or a threat.
A knock at the door.
Midnight.
She reached for the gun hidden in the drawer before answering.
It wasn’t a threat.
It was a gift. A single white rose with a note:
“You don’t trust anyone. That’s smart. Keep it that way. —V”
She stared at the rose for a long time, wondering if she was already in too deep.
Dinner with the Devil
The restaurant was closed to the public.
Of course it was. Vincent Moretti didn’t reserve places—he owned them.
Elena arrived at 9:00 sharp, as instructed.
The maître d’ didn’t ask for her name. He simply nodded and led her to the private dining room in the back—glass walls, red velvet curtains, and a single table set for two.
Vincent stood when she entered, dressed in a black suit, shirt unbuttoned just enough to show the edge of the silver crucifix around his neck.
“Counsellor,” he said, pulling out her chair.
“Don’t try to charm me,” she replied, sitting.
“Who said I was trying?” he smirked, settling across from her.
---
The First Course
They ate in near silence at first. The waiter brought grilled octopus, hand-rolled gnocchi, and wine that probably cost more than her car.
She sipped water.
“You don’t trust me,” Vincent said, watching her over the rim of his glass.
“No,” she said. “Should I?”
“Eventually,” he said. “Or at least pretend to. That’s how this game works.”
She narrowed her eyes. “What game is that?”
He leaned in. “The one where you defend a man you should run from, and in return, he doesn’t drag you into his mess.”
“You already did.”
“Not yet.”
---
The Interruption
The door opened. A man in his 60s entered—grey suit, cold eyes, and a gun barely hidden under his coat.
“This is Matteo,” Vincent said. “My consigliere.”
Elena nodded. Matteo didn’t.
“She’s not one of us,” he said in Italian.
“She’s not supposed to be,” Vincent replied in the same tongue, deliberately keeping his voice low. “That’s the point.”
Elena answered—also in Italian.
“You’re both idiots if you think I don’t understand you.”
Matteo blinked. Vincent smiled—genuinely, this time.
“Well,” Vincent said, finishing his wine, “now we are in trouble.”
---
The Offer
He slid a folder across the table. Thick. Confidential.
“What’s this?” she asked.
“Everything the Feds have on me. Surveillance, informants, theories. Some true. Most not. It’s yours.”
She didn’t touch it.
“Why would you give me that?”
“Because I need someone who sees the monster and stays anyway.”
Elena met his gaze. For a moment, it was quiet—no games, no masks.
“I’m not yours,” she said softly.
“Not yet,” he replied.
---
That Night
She read every page of the folder.
By 3:00 AM, she’d poured herself a drink.
By 3:15, she was calling an old contact in the Justice Department.
By 3:17, she hung up before it could ring.
She wasn’t sure which scared her more:
The case she’d taken…
Or the man she was starting to want.
The Softest Threat
Elena woke before the sun.
Something was… off.
The air felt touched, disturbed—as if someone had been in the room while she slept.
She rose slowly, quietly, hand brushing the nightstand where her pistol usually waited.
It wasn’t there.
Her heart slammed once—twice. Then her eyes found it.
Sitting neatly on her kitchen counter.
Unloaded.
Next to it: a fresh croissant. Still warm. A cup of her favourite coffee.
And a note.
> “Your locks are too easy. Upgrade them.
Also—sleep lighter.
—V”
---
She Called Him
No greeting. No small talk.
“You broke into my apartment,” she said, voice ice.
“You’re welcome,” Vincent replied, unbothered. “A man was watching your building last night. I took care of it.”
“Took care of it how?”
He didn’t answer.
“You can’t just—”
“I can, Elena. I will.”
Silence crackled between them. Then softer:
“You said you don’t trust anyone. That includes the people after you.”
“I didn’t ask you to protect me.”
“No,” he said. “But you liked it.”
---
That Afternoon
At work, Elena kept glancing over her shoulder. At crosswalks. In elevators.
Everything felt heavier. Closer.
She wasn’t sure what frightened her more:
The men followed her.
Or the one following them.
Because Vincent wasn’t just watching over her.
He was claiming her. Quietly. Completely.
One soft threat at a time.
---
That Night
When she returned home, new locks had been installed. The security system had been upgraded.
She hadn’t called anyone.
In her bedroom, a gift sat on the bed: a single black velvet box. Inside, a necklace.
Thin. Elegant.
A small pendant in the shape of a wolf’s tooth.
She didn’t call him.
Didn’t
-
- Writer
