the Don's heir

chapter six

SHE IS MINE

The Moretti estate smelled faintly of cigar smoke and polished wood when Alessandro stepped into his father’s study. Don Vittorio sat in his leather chair, the room dim except for the glow of a desk lamp. Two capos stood near the wall, silent as statues.

“You handled that drunk at the club well,” Vittorio said without looking up from the papers in front of him. “No mess. No scene.”

Alessandro raised a brow. “You had me watched?”

The old man’s eyes flicked up, cold and sharp. “I have everyone watched. Including you.”

Alessandro’s jaw clenched, but he said nothing.

Vittorio gestured at this guards standing nearby. “The Bellantis are moving shipments through the docks again. Tomorrow night, you and Luca will remind them whose city this is.”

Alessandro leaned against the desk, folding his arms. “Subtle reminder or loud one?”

Vittorio’s lips curved into a thin smile. “Loud. Make them bleed. Fear lasts longer when it stains the pavement.”

---

The next night, the docks reeked of salt and rust. Clara was nowhere near, but the Moretti crew assembled in silence—Alessandro, Luca, and five armed men.

Crates sat stacked high under the floodlights, and Bellanti soldiers smoked near a black SUV, unaware their night was about to end.

Alessandro gave a single nod. The attack erupted.

Gunfire shattered the quiet. Men shouted, scrambling for cover. Luca moved like a ghost, precise and ruthless. Alessandro advanced without hesitation, his pistol barking with every squeeze of the trigger. A Bellanti soldier went down screaming, another dropped before he could draw.

When the smoke cleared, three Bellantis lay bleeding on the dock. The survivors fled into the night.

Alessandro wiped blood from his cheek, his eyes hard. “Send their bodies back in crates. A message.”

Luca gave a curt nod, but his gaze lingered on his friend. “You enjoyed that too much.”

Alessandro holstered his weapon, voice cold. “It’s not about enjoyment. It’s about memory. They’ll remember tonight every time they breathe.”

---

Meanwhile, Clara sat in her apartment, typing frantically.

Subject: Dock Attack – Moretti retaliation

She pieced together whispers she’d overheard from bartenders, late-night calls, the sudden absence of certain men from the club. It was circumstantial, fragile—but the picture was forming.

The Morettis weren’t just laundering money. They were running the streets with blood.

Her phone buzzed. A new message from Mark.

> FBI wants intel. They’ll pay. Give me something solid on Alessandro.

Clara’s stomach twisted. She was supposed to expose him. That was the mission. But her fingers hovered over the keyboard, refusing to type.

Instead, she whispered to the empty room, “Why is it so hard to write about him?”

Back at the estate, Alessandro stood in the shower, hot water washing the blood from his skin. He braced his hands against the tile, eyes closed, remembering the look in Clara’s eyes the night before when he’d touched her hand.

She wasn’t like the others. She didn’t bow, didn’t flinch. She lied, yes—but beautifully. Boldly.

And part of him, against all reason, wanted those lies to be real.

The club was quieter on Tuesday nights, the usual frenzy thinned to a low hum of laughter and clinking glasses. Clara moved through the half-empty floor with a tray, grateful for the relative calm. She needed space to think, to breathe.

But Alessandro never gave her that.

He was already waiting in the corner booth, a glass of whiskey untouched before him. His gaze followed her as she delivered drinks to a pair of businessmen, then motioned her over with a flick of his fingers.

Clara approached cautiously. “Another drink?”

“No.” His voice was cool, but not unkind. “Sit.”

She hesitated, then slid into the seat across from him.

For a moment, he said nothing, just studied her. It was unbearable, the way he looked through her. Finally, she broke the silence.

“You always stare at people like they owe you answers?”

Alessandro’s lips curved faintly. “Only the ones who lie.”

Her pulse jumped. “You think I’m lying?”

“I know you are.” He leaned closer, eyes sharp. “The question is—why?”

Clara swallowed, forcing her voice to stay steady. “What if I told you some lies are just survival?”

For the first time, something flickered in his expression—not suspicion, not anger. Understanding.

“Then I’d say you and I aren’t so different,” Alessandro murmured.

The air between them tightened. She wanted to look away, to break the moment, but she couldn’t. His presence was magnetic, dangerous, and she was already too close.

Upstairs, Luca leaned against the balcony rail overlooking the floor, arms crossed. Bianca joined him, sipping a martini she’d swiped from the bar.

“You’re glaring holes into her,” Bianca said casually.

“She’s trouble,” Luca muttered.

Bianca smirked. “Maybe Ale likes trouble.”

Luca’s jaw tightened. “Trouble gets people killed. Including him.”

Bianca rolled her eyes, twirling her glass. “You’re too paranoid. Maybe she’s just a girl.”

“She’s not just anything,” Luca said darkly. “And if she’s a plant…” He let the sentence hang, unfinished, but Bianca shivered at the implication.