Dark Devotion

Dante Moretti  Midnight, Rome   They say the devil wears a crown in hell.  Mine’s drenched in blood.   The room was silent, save for the sound of a man choking on his final breath. He gasped and writhed on the marble floor, the polished white now painted red. Crimson poured from his mouth like spilled wine—rich, slow, almost poetic. Pathetic. He should’ve known better than to steal from me.   I crouched beside him, my tailored suit unbothered by the growing pool of blood. His eyes, wide with disbelief, met mine. There was always that moment—when they realized I wasn’t bluffing. That there was no mercy left to bargain for. Only consequences.   “Next time,” I murmured, though we both knew there wouldn’t be one, “remember who owns this city.”   His chest heaved once, twice—and then stilled. Silence reclaimed the room.   I stood, wiped the blood from my knuckles with a monogrammed handkerchief, and flicked it onto his corpse. I didn’t flinch. I didn’t look back.   Mercy had no place in my world.   My empire was built on control, fear, and precision. Rome wasn't a city—it was a chessboard, and I was always five moves ahead. I didn’t trust anyone. Not my men. Not my blood. Not even God.    Soft got you killed.   I walked across the cold marble floor to the tall window that spanned nearly an entire wall. Floor-to-ceiling glass framed the eternal city like a painting. Rome glittered beneath me—ancient and ruthless. The Colosseum slept in the distance, bathed in shadows and moonlight, a reminder that blood and spectacle had always been at the heart of this place.   Just like me.   I lit a cigarette with calm, practiced hands, inhaling the burn into my lungs, exhaling with slow satisfaction. Smoke curled around me like a lover’s touch—familiar, fleeting, safe.   I was twenty-nine. Young by mafia standards. Old enough to command fear. Too young to be this numb.   But age didn’t matter when your hands were steady and your heart didn’t beat for anyone.   I’d carved out my empire with blood and silence, every decision sharpened like a blade. I had enemies in every corner, rats in every shadow, and a ledger written in names, not numbers. I didn’t lose. I couldn’t afford to.   My name meant something in this city—Dante Moretti. To some, it inspired loyalty. To others, dread. I preferred the latter. Fear was cleaner. Quieter.   Predictable.   Until her.   I didn’t know her name yet. Just that she’d walked into my war without meaning to—and didn’t run. Most people, when they caught even a glimpse of the world I ruled, fled without looking back. But not her. She stood in the crossfire like she belonged there. Like she’d forgotten she was made of softness and light.   She wasn’t built for my world.  Too kind.  Too honest.  Too bright.   And yet, somehow, she didn’t burn. Not the way she should have. She glowed, even in the shadows. And I—   I stared too long.   Something about her unsettled the cold inside me. Not enough to thaw it. Not yet. But enough to make it crack.   The first time I saw her, she was crying outside a hospital. It was raining, and she didn’t have an umbrella. She didn’t notice the blood on her hands or the man she was holding onto like he was already gone. I should’ve walked away. I had a meeting. A deal. A life to protect.   But I didn’t move.   I watched her instead—silent, still, and completely unsure why.   Since then, she’s been a shadow in my mind. A ghost with warm eyes and trembling lips. I don’t know her name, but I remember the way her fingers shook. The way she whispered someone else’s name like a prayer. She was breaking.   And I wanted to know what had broken her.   I’d taken lives without guilt. Burned down legacies without hesitation. Ripped families apart and never blinked.   But loving her…  That would be the one thing that could destroy me.   And maybe—  Just maybe—  I wouldn’t mind the ruin.