the Don's heir

chapter four

Bloodlines

The Moretti dining room was a theater of power. A chandelier dripped crystal light over a long oak table, where pasta dishes and bottles of Chianti served as props for something far deadlier: family politics.

Alessandro sat near the head, a glass of wine untouched before him. On his right, Bianca twirled her fork with bored elegance, her phone buzzing under the table. To his left, Luca leaned back, watching quietly. At the head sat Don Vittorio, silver hair slicked back, eyes sharp enough to cut stone.

“You’re distracted,” Vittorio said suddenly, his gaze piercing his son.

“I’m not,” Alessandro replied coolly.

“You are,” the don snapped. “You sit at this table, but your mind is elsewhere. I see it in your eyes.”

Bianca smirked, sipping her wine. “Maybe he’s finally in love, Papà.”

Alessandro’s hand froze on his glass. Bianca grinned like a cat, enjoying the tension.

Vittorio’s eyes narrowed. “With who?”

“No one,” Alessandro said flatly.

Bianca leaned forward, her tone mocking. “Maybe with that new waitress at the club. Clara, right? She’s cute. Too cute for a girl serving drinks to drunks.”

Vittorio slammed his fist on the table, rattling silverware. “A Moretti does not waste time with servants! You dishonor your blood even looking at her.”

The room stilled. Alessandro’s jaw clenched, his voice low and cold. “I dishonor nothing. She’s just an employee.”

“Good,” Vittorio said sharply. “Because if you were weak enough to let a woman cloud your judgment, you would not be ready to wear my crown.”

Bianca rolled her eyes, muttering under her breath, “What crown? More like a noose.”

“Enough!” Vittorio barked, his hand slamming again. “You think this life is a joke, ragazza? You think the Bellantis will spare you because you are pretty? They will slit your throat in an alley and laugh while your blood runs into the gutter.”

Bianca’s smirk faltered. She pushed her plate away, suddenly pale.

Alessandro broke the silence, his tone cutting steel. “If the Bellantis touch her, they die screaming. Every last one of them.”

The room went quiet again. Vittorio studied him for a long moment, then gave a slow, dangerous smile.

“Spoken like my son,” the don said.

---

Across the river, Clara met with her editor Mark Langston in a dimly lit diner. She slid a small flash drive across the table.

“Ledger pages,” she whispered. “Money moving through shell companies. The club is just the tip of it. If we trace the wires, we’ll have proof of the Morettis laundering millions.”

Mark pocketed it quickly. “This is good. This is very good.” He leaned closer, lowering his voice. “But I want Alessandro. He’s the heir. The face. Get something on him, Clara, and we have the story of the decade.”

Clara stirred her coffee, her stomach twisting. “He’s careful. Too careful.”

Mark’s eyes hardened. “Then stop making excuses. Get closer.”

She swallowed hard, knowing the words would cost her later. “I’m already closer than I should be.”

Mark didn’t notice the tremor in her voice. Or maybe he didn’t care.

That night, Alessandro stood alone on the balcony of the estate, the city lights flickering like stars across the Hudson. He lit a cigar, exhaling smoke into the cool night.

He didn’t hear Luca step out until he spoke.

“You’re playing with fire, Ale.”

Alessandro didn’t turn. “And if I am?”

“Fire burns. You let that girl get too close, it won’t be the Bellantis that kill you. It’ll be your father.”

Alessandro’s jaw tightened as he stared at the glittering skyline.

“Let him try.”