Vittorio Moretti
820 Words
Vittorio Moretti did not remember the first time he learned how to kill.
Not because it was insignificant—
but because violence had never felt like a beginning.
It was simply there. Like breath. Like blood.
He was born into a name that carried weight long before it carried respect. The Moretti legacy wasn’t built in boardrooms or press releases. It was built in back alleys, sealed rooms, unmarked graves, and agreements that never made it to paper.
Power was inherited the way some people inherited eye color—without choice, without apology.
By the time Vittorio was old enough to understand consequences, he had already learned control.
Control over fear.
Control over anger.
Control over himself.
That was what separated him from monsters.
He didn’t kill because he enjoyed it. He killed because it was necessary. Clean. Decisive. Without hesitation. Rats were eliminated when they threatened the structure. People were removed when they forgot their place. He did not lose sleep over it. Sleep was a luxury for men who hesitated.
The world worked because someone like him existed.
And Vittorio accepted that role without complaint.
There was only one thing in his life that was not negotiable.
Elio.
His younger brother had been born softer. Not weak—never weak—but untouched by the rot that surrounded them. Where Vittorio learned to watch shadows, Elio learned to listen to heartbeats. Where Vittorio hardened, Elio remained open. Smiling. Kind. Alive in a way Vittorio had never allowed himself to be.
From the moment Elio wrapped his small fingers around Vittorio’s thumb as a child, something inside him had locked into place.
Protection.
Not the gentle kind.
The violent kind.
The kind that destroyed threats before they reached the door.
Vittorio had bled for that boy. Killed for him. Lied for him. He had become something darker so Elio could remain clean. Every decision Vittorio made—every empire expanded, every man eliminated—had one silent calculation behind it.
Will this keep my brother safe?
If the answer was yes, nothing else mattered.
Moretti Global Holdings was the public face of that protection. A flawless machine of wealth, influence, and legitimacy. Board members thought they answered to a CEO. Governments thought they negotiated with a businessman. Criminals thought they understood the rules.

They were all wrong.
Vittorio was the rule.
Inside the office, he was controlled. Precise. Cold enough to freeze dissent before it formed. His voice rarely rose. He didn’t need volume to command obedience. Silence was more effective. People filled it with fear on their own.
He did not socialize. Did not joke. Did not waste time on pleasantries.
Women, however, were easy.
They came knowing what they were offered—and what they were not.
No affection.
No tenderness.
No promises.
Bodies without attachment. Nights without memory. Desire stripped of emotion. He shared them with Elio because it was easier that way. Cleaner. It ensured neither of them confused lust with love. It kept emotions contained, controlled, harmless.
Love was dangerous.
Love made men weak.
Vittorio could not afford weakness.
And then there was Prerana.
She had arrived quietly. No demand for attention. No attempt to impress. She didn’t flirt. Didn’t linger. Didn’t look at him the way other women did—with hunger or ambition or fear disguised as interest.
She simply… worked.
Efficient. Observant. Calm.
At first, she was just another employee.
Then he noticed patterns.
The way she anticipated needs before they were spoken. The way she never asked unnecessary questions. The way her eyes lowered not in submission, but in discipline.
She didn’t seek approval. She didn’t crave praise. She functioned like someone who had learned that survival depended on precision.
That recognition unsettled him.
Vittorio did not like things he could not categorize.
He watched her more than he should have. Not desire—at least not initially. Assessment. Measurement.
He wanted to understand what had shaped her into this quiet, controlled thing that never demanded space.
When he learned she had no family, something cold and sharp curled inside his chest.
Not pity.
Ownership.
A woman without roots was dangerous territory. She could be broken easily. Or claimed completely.
And Vittorio Moretti did not share what he claimed—except with one man.
Elio.
He caught himself adjusting his tone around her. Correcting others when they spoke sharply to her. Sending coffee when she forgot to eat. Small things. Controlled things.
Still, it was more than he allowed anyone.
He told himself it was vigilance. Professionalism. Responsibility.
But deep down, something primitive had begun to stir.
Prerana belonged to his world now. She walked his halls. Breathed his air. Served his time.
That made her his responsibility.
And Vittorio Moretti protected what was his with absolute devotion.
He had not yet touched her.
But the obsession had already taken root.
Silent. Patient. Dangerous.
Like everything else he loved.
- Writer
