Chapter 4
1233 Words
The Moretti estate was quiet in the worst possible way.
Not the peace of safety, but the stillness that comes before a storm.
Adriano Moretti stood before his brother’s hospital bed, his black shirt rolled to the elbows, streaks of blood still faintly visible at his cuffs. The doctors had done their work. Marco was alive, though pale, sedated, tubes running from his arm like veins of glass.
The bullet had missed his heart by inches.
A miracle, they said.
Adriano didn’t believe in miracles.
He believed in messages.
And last night’s attack was a message written in gunfire and betrayal.
The city’s news outlets screamed headlines, each more damning than the last:
“Romano Soldier Dead in Gala Bloodbath.”
“Was Moretti's Heir Responsible?”
“Peace Treaty in Ashes.”
He could feel his father’s ghost laughing in the walls. Never make peace with wolves, the old man had said. They only smile when they’re hungry.
Adriano clenched his jaw. “Who leaked the footage?”
Luciano, his second-in-command, shifted nervously near the door. “Could’ve been one of the guards. Maybe someone on their payroll.”
Adriano turned sharply. “Then find them.”
Luciano nodded, but his eyes flicked toward Marco. “You should rest. The Council’s been calling. They’ll want answers.”
“I’ll give them answers when I find the bastard who fired that gun.”
“You think it wasn’t the Romanos?”
Adriano’s silence was sharp enough to cut. “I think it was too easy.”
Luciano frowned. “Easy?”
“Everything about last night was a setup,” Adriano said. “The seating, the lighting, the timing of the power cut right before the gunshot. Somebody planned that chaos to look like us.”
He turned to the window, watching rain streak down the glass. Manhattan looked innocent under the drizzle, like the city hadn’t just watched two empires unravel.
“Whoever did it,” he continued, “wanted the Romanos and the Morettis at each other’s throats again.”
Luciano lowered his voice. “Then who?”
Adriano’s reflection in the glass looked older than his years. “Someone who profits from blood.”
His phone buzzed—unknown number.
He answered on instinct. “Speak.”
Silence. Then soft, cautious, unmistakable:
“Adriano.”
He froze. Isabella Romano’s voice poured through the receiver like smoke, smooth, trembling, dangerous.
“I shouldn’t be calling,” she said. “But you need to know something.”
His pulse kicked. “You’re the last person who should be calling.”
“I saw something. The man in white is my father’s advisor. Vincenzo. He was near the terrace before the shot.”
Adriano’s grip on the phone tightened. “You’re sure?”
“I have a photo.”
He exhaled through his teeth. “Then you’re in more danger than you realize.”
A pause. “Why? Because of you?”
“No,” he said quietly. “Because of the people you think you can trust.”
The silence stretched until it felt like an unspoken truth, one neither of them was ready to name.
Finally, she whispered, “They’re blaming you.”
“I know.”
“Are they wrong?”
His voice dropped, low and deliberate. “If I wanted him dead, you’d have seen me pull the trigger.”
A sharp inhale. “Then who did?”
“That’s what I’m going to find out.”
The line clicked dead.
He stood there for a moment, phone still pressed to his ear, heart pounding in a rhythm that wasn’t entirely rage. Then he slipped it into his pocket and turned toward the door.
“Luciano,” he said.
“Yeah?”
“Call the men. Lock down the south warehouse. And find out who’s feeding the press.”
Luciano frowned. “And you?”
Adriano reached for his coat. “I’m going to pay a visit to an old friend.”
The night had teeth again.
By the time Adriano reached the waterfront, Manhattan’s lights were reflected in the Hudson like burning embers. The old dockyard, once a smuggling port and now a shadow-run headquarters, was guarded by his men. But something in the air felt off. Too still.
He pushed through the double doors, the scent of oil and gunmetal clinging to the walls.
Inside, three of his lieutenants waited. Beside them, a man on his knees, bruised, trembling, with a bloodied lip. One of their own.
“Who sold the footage?” Adriano asked.
No one answered.
He walked forward slowly, his footsteps echoing. “Whoever talks first walks out alive.”
The man on the floor whimpered. “It wasn’t me, boss. I swear”
Adriano crouched, his voice calm. “Then tell me who.”
Tears mixed with blood. “I…I don’t know. They paid me to leave the door open. Said it was for catering staff.”
“Who paid you?”
“Didn’t give a name. Just said the Romanos wanted to make it look like we broke the truce.”
Adriano’s jaw tightened. “You’re lying.”
The man sobbed. “I swear”
A gun clicked behind him.
Luciano had drawn it, eyes dark. “You want me to”
“No,” Adriano said quietly. “Let him live. He’s not the enemy. He’s a pawn.”
He stood, turning away. His mind was racing, connecting lines no one else could see. If Isabella was right, if Vincenzo was involved, then the Romanos’ rot ran deeper than even her father knew.
And if someone inside the Moretti ranks had helped frame him.
It wasn’t a war. It was a cleansing.
His phone buzzed again. This time, the name on the screen made his stomach twist: The Council.
He answered. “Moretti.”
A deep, aged voice spoke. “Adriano. The Council requests your presence. Midnight. Palazzo Ceres.”
Adriano’s hand tightened around the phone. “What’s this about?”
“You already know.”
The line went dead.
By the time the clock struck eleven, Adriano was back at the estate, standing before a mirror. His reflection stared back, calm, controlled, unreadable.
He adjusted his cufflinks, slid his pistol into its holster, and straightened his tie.
Luciano hovered in the doorway. “Are you sure you should go? Council meetings at midnight never mean good things.”
“They think I ordered the hit,” Adriano said. “If I don’t show, I prove them right.”
Luciano nodded grimly. “You want backup?”
“No. If I can’t walk into that room alone, I don’t deserve to walk out.”
He stepped past him, his cologne faint but sharp, cedar, smoke, danger.
Outside, the rain had stopped. The city gleamed like polished glass.
As he slid into the back of the waiting car, he caught a glimpse of his phone screen. A new message blinked from that same unknown number.
Isabella: “Be careful tonight, you're not the only one being watched.”
He didn’t reply.
But as the car pulled into the rain-slick streets, he found himself glancing once more at her words, then at his own reflection in the dark window.
He didn’t know which was more dangerous anymore, his enemies’ bullets or the way Isabella Romano’s voice had started to sound like the truth.
- Writer
