Chapter 5
1139 Words
The clock struck midnight like a warning.
Rain beat against the tall arched windows of the Moretti estate, turning the city beyond into a shimmer of ghost lights. In the council chamber below, twelve men gathered, each a wolf in tailored suits, old enough to have forgotten mercy.
The Moretti estate’s underground council chamber smelled of smoke and leather, mahogany walls, dim chandeliers, and men in suits that cost more than mercy.
Adriano sat among them, jaw clenched, fingers laced before him on the long mahogany table. Every sense felt sharpened, raw. The smoke from the cigars curled like slow poison through the air.
At the head sat Don Rossi Moretti, the family patriarch, and his father. The old lion whose silence always meant danger. His eyes burned faintly gold under the chandelier, scanning each face in turn.
Around the table, lieutenants murmured:
“He fired the shot.”
“No, he was framed.”
“Doesn’t matter. The Romanos will strike either way.”
Rossi raised a hand. Silence fell.
“Adriano,” he said, finally meeting his son’s gaze. “You were seen holding a weapon.”
“Yes.”
“And one of theirs died.”
“Yes.”
“Then tell me,” the Don said softly, “why shouldn’t I hand you to them as tribute and keep the peace?”
The question hit like a punch. The room stilled.
Adriano leaned forward, voice low and steady. “Because whoever set me up isn’t just after me, they’re after you. After all of us.”
“And what proof do you have?”
He slid the printed photo across the table, the same frame from the ballroom cameras, then another, zoomed out. A man in white at the terrace door.
“The shot didn’t come from me. It came from there.”
Rossi studied the image, unreadable. “A man in white. That’s thin.”
“It’s more than thin when that same man was seen talking to Vincenzo Romano two nights before the gala.”
The murmurs began immediately: anger, insult, threat.
“They want blood.”
“Then give them some.”
“War will gut us both.”
Rossi raised a hand, and silence fell again. “There will be no open war. We’ll end this another way.”
“The Romanos have accused us publicly,” he said at last, voice low and steady. “They’ve frozen the docks, blocked our shipments, and turned two of our allies.”
Adriano’s gut tightened. He already knew what was coming, he could feel it in the way the older men leaned closer, hungry for control.
Don Martelli, the consigliere, spoke next. “We need leverage. Something they value more than pride.”
“Their daughter,” someone muttered. “The girl from the gala.”
The words dropped like a blade.
Adriano’s fingers stilled. “Isabella Romano.”
“Yes,” Martelli said, watching him carefully. “The only heir. She’s unprotected now that her father’s security is split between hiding his guilt and managing the press. She’s perfect leverage.”
“No.” The word left Adriano before he could stop it. It cracked across the room. “She’s off-limits.”
Rossi’s gaze cut toward him. “You forget yourself.”
“She’s innocent.”
“There are no innocents in this city,” his father said evenly. “Only debts.”
Adriano stood, voice rising. “Abducting her will start the war you claim you’re avoiding.”
Martelli smirked. “You sound concerned, Adriano. Personal reasons?”
He met the older man’s gaze coldly. “Strategic ones. The Romanos will never negotiate under threat. They’ll retaliate.”
“Then let them,” Rossi said. “They’ll come to the table once they realize their daughter breathes because we allow it.”
The room buzzed with low approval. The old wolves liked blood, they understood nothing else.
Adriano stepped closer to the table, lowering his voice. “This isn’t leverage. It’s suicide.”
Rossi rose, and the air went still. “You forget your place.”
Adriano’s jaw flexed. “I remember my place. I’m the one trying to keep this family alive.”
For a heartbeat, father and son stood locked in silent defiance, the council watching like vultures. Then Rossi smiled, slowly, thin-lipped, and dangerous.
“Then prove it,” he said softly. “You’ll bring her in yourself.”
The words hit harder than a gunshot.
Adriano stared at him. “You want me to abduct the Romano girl?”
“I want you to clean the mess you’ve made,” Rossi replied. “Bring her in alive, untouched, and unseen. If she’s as clever as you think, she’ll understand the cost of loyalty.”
“And if I refuse?”
Rossi leaned close, voice a whisper of iron. “Then I’ll send someone who won’t bother with mercy.”
The meeting ended in a blur of smoke and laughter, cold, metallic, cruel.
Adriano remained seated long after the others left, staring at the empty glass before him. The rain outside had turned heavier, hammering the windows like an omen.
He pressed his palms against his eyes, forcing control back into his breathing.
It had been one thing to be accused and another to lose a soldier.
But this was betrayal by his own blood.
When he finally stood, Luca was waiting by the door, expression wary.
“You tried,” Luca said quietly. “They were never going to listen.”
Adriano reached for his coat. “Then I’ll listen for both of us.”
“You’re really going to take her?”
He paused. “I don’t take hostages.”
“Then what are you going to do?”
Adriano looked toward the window, where lightning flashed over the city. “Find her before they do.”
By dawn, the rain had washed Manhattan clean, but nothing felt pure. The city was quieter than usual, the calm that comes before something breaks.
Adriano drove through the sleeping streets, every turn haunted by memory: her voice, the way she’d looked at him with accusation and something like disbelief.
He told himself it wasn’t personal.
That this was a strategy. Survival.
But lies always sounded more convincing when whispered in his own head.
He pulled over near the edge of Central Park. From here, he could see the Romano penthouse, a tower of glass and arrogance. Guards at every corner, cameras hidden in the flowerbeds, cars rotating in silent shifts.
Getting in would be a challenge.
Getting out with Isabella alive is almost impossible.
He lit a cigarette and leaned against the car, eyes narrowing.
Somewhere inside that fortress, Isabella was probably reading headlines that called him a monster.
And tonight, he would have to become one.
- Writer
