Kingpin's obsession

The black sky overhead was illuminated off the horizon, but to Luca Moretti, it was just his domain. At twenty-eight, Luca Moretti was already a billionaire and the founder of Moretti Holdings. Other than his legal dealings, he had underground networks. During the day, he posed for pictures and inked billion-dollar deals. Under the cover of darkness, he controlled the city's underworld with ruthless precision. Women were a passing affection for Luca, a diversion for him to be indulged and disposed of like garbage. His Contempt was not a result of brokenness; it was a result of his education by a father who had taught him that women were playthings and not buddies. This evening, he had requested an escort to his penthouse, a red-haired, impassive woman, chosen as one chooses wine. He did not quite register that she was even human as he made a drink, analyzing her angles and her curves. She had the body of a slut....just how he liked it. Their coming together was an exhibition of power, not desire. Luca's hollow, uncompromising eyes never softened as he worked over her. His grip was crushing, his fingers urgently tucking and kneading. Every stroke was more a demonstration of habitual familiarity than of deliberate control. She did not shriek; she was smarter than that. The rest of the room was silent except for the rough staccato beat of his breathing and wet thud of city streets a mile away. Luca's head was already a thousand miles away, analyzing boardroom strategy, strategizing whom he'd annihilate next. The woman in his bed was as disposable as the crystal tumbler he slams into the wall when a deal falls apart. When he finished, he backed away, not a murmur from him, his eyes slicing into her as if she were something to be concealed. He sneered, rude, and then tossed a wad of money onto the silk bed, payment for an hour that had never been about lust, but of conquest. She gathered her things in shaking hands, her eyes not lifted. Luca did not look up as she departed; he'd already spun on his heel and was walking towards the floor-to-ceiling lights below, gleaming like scattered stars. The city lights twinkled like spent stars beneath, but Luca saw none of them; his gaze was on his reflection, a man who owned everything and felt nothing. There was a tap at the dining room door, interrupting the soft hum of the house and his daydreaming. His maid, Alessia, wheeled in his late dinner: perfectly roasted lamb, steaming vegetables, and sauce redolent with the scent of hot spices. Luca bit hesitantly. A rich, unmistakable cinnamon wave flooded his tongue. He shot her a glare of outrage as he dropped his fork against the fine china. "Cinnamon," he growled low and rough, a breath a little louder than a whisper. "Do you wish to die?" Alessia's eyes flash up at his, fierce but not intimidated. She stands, chin thrust forward on a clamped lip. "It was an accident. The kitchen must have—" Luca slammed his hand down on the table again, the crystal glass threatening to shatter. "An accident?" He snarled, his tone slicing through the air like a knife. "You have the nerve to try and argue here?" She took a deep, savage breath but refused to close her eyes. "You think belittling me will make you powerful, Mr. Moretti?" Her tone was brutal and coarsened, commanding. "You do not frighten me." "Oh really?"He loomed over her, pushed his head out. "I will show you what power is," he snapped. "Power is when one of my words will cause you to vanish from this city." Alessia was panting, but the scowl would not leave his lips. "You can not control everyone." He leaned close enough to catch her ragged breathing. "No," he said, his voice flat, "But I control you." He fought to extract his phone, never once breaking eye contact with hers. "Pack your things." His voice was glacial. He called his chief of staff. "Release her now. Send my roughest security to escort her out. And send me someone who knows their place as a maid." "Yes, sir," was the crisp answer. He tossed his phone onto the table in contemptuous disdain that blazed like a slap. "Be thankful I didn't kill you." Alessia's eyes flashed in outrage and fear, fighting for control. She spun on her heel and left with stiff shoulders. The massive door slammed shut behind her with a clap of thunder. Luca breathed deeply, rage to burn simmering just below the tranquil surface. His hunger was second, second only to a raging, white hurricane. He pushed himself harshly against the window, his eyes scanning over the city that was his and his alone.