𝙃𝙞𝙨 𝙁𝙤𝙧𝙗𝙞𝙙𝙙𝙚𝙣 𝙊𝙗𝙨𝙚𝙨𝙨𝙞𝙤𝙣

𝙘𝙝𝙖𝙥𝙩𝙚𝙧 𝙎𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣: 𝙏𝙝𝙚 𝙧𝙪𝙡𝙚 𝙤𝙛 𝙩𝙝𝙚 𝙗𝙡𝙤𝙤𝙙𝙡𝙞𝙣𝙚

beneath the Rossi estate was older than most of the city.

Lit by iron sconces and reeking of damp stone and secrets, it wasn’t where men came to drink.

It was where men came to talk. Quietly. Dangerously.

“You’re sure?” the man asked, swirling the glass of red wine he hadn’t sipped from.

“Yes, sir.” The young spy stood stiffly in the corner, avoiding direct eye contact. “I saw it with my own eyes. Damian Moretti shot a man last night… over her.”

“‘Her’ being the girl his men brought in from the estate?”

The spy nodded. “She wandered off during the dinner party. Took a drink that had been… tampered with. Another guest tried to lead her out. Damian intervened. Shot the man clean through the skull. Publicly. Possessively.”

The older man didn’t move.

Didn’t blink.

Only said, “Interesting.”

The room was thick with silence.

After a moment, the man finally sipped the wine. Let it sit on his tongue before swallowing.

“Damian always was reckless,” he muttered. “But this… this isn’t like him.”

“No, sir.”

“He’s slipping.”

“Perhaps,” the spy offered. “Or perhaps the girl matters.”

A sharp glance followed. “You think he cares?”

The spy hesitated. “He killed for her.”

That was all it took.

The wine glass was slammed on the table, the stem cracking at the base.

“Then he’s a damn fool.”

The older man rose to his full height, his tailored suit catching the low candlelight. His face bore the weight of decades — sharp eyes, thin mouth, and the unmistakable coldness of a man who had never once chosen love over power.

He was Vittorio Moretti.

Damian’s uncle.

And the only man left who truly challenged his position in the family’s blood-stained empire.

“A Moretti does not fall, boy,” Vittorio said, voice like iron scraping glass. “We do not flinch, and we do not love.”

He stepped closer to the spy, eyes drilling into him.

“If Damian is letting himself be ruled by a woman, then he’s no better than his father.”

The spy swallowed hard. “What do you want me to do, sir?”

Vittorio turned toward the ancient stone wall, hands clasped behind his back.

“Keep watching. Keep recording. The moment she becomes more than a weakness—if she becomes a liability to the name—”

He paused.

Then finished coldly, “We remove her.”

The spy gave a slow nod. “Yes, sir.”

“And tell our friend in Belgium to keep his men ready. If Damian starts slipping further, I won’t hesitate to take back what should’ve been mine.”

Vittorio walked to the dark corner of the cellar where a single photograph sat on a dust-covered shelf. A younger Damian beside his father, only ten years old, already wearing that same dead-eyed stare.

So much like him.

And yet not enough.

With a breath as heavy as regret, Vittorio whispered to no one:

“Let him play with fire. He’ll remember soon enough—

No Moretti survives love.