Chapter Four – Salvatore Moretti POV
Blood still clung to my side like a ghost when I left the clinic, though Isabella Romano's stitching had closed the wound. It wasn't the pain that consumed me—it was the insult. Someone had dared to aim for me in London. Someone had dared to spill my blood.
Back at the car, Marcello's phone was already in his hand, his calm eyes flicking toward me. He didn't need me to say it, but I did anyway.
"Call Raffaele."
He nodded and dialed. The line clicked, and after a pause Raffaele's voice came through, sharp and steady.
"Don?"
Marcello placed the phone on speaker. I leaned back against the leather, jaw tight, staring out at the wet London streets as the car moved.
"They tried to cut me down," I said, voice low. "In a warehouse, during a meeting with Enzo. A bullet grazed me."
For a moment, silence stretched on the other end of the line. Then Raffaele spoke, measured. "Who?"
"That's your job to find out," I snapped. "I want the name of the bastard who ordered it. Rossi or otherwise. Tear New York and London apart if you have to."
"Yes, Don. I'll start immediately. No one will sleep until I have an answer."
From the front seat, Enzo growled. "No need to wait. Let me handle it. I'll bleed this city until someone talks. They'll choke on their own secrets."
"Not yet," Raffaele's voice cut in, calm but cold. "We strike blind, we look desperate. That's weakness. Let me do this right."
The difference between them was always clear. Enzo was fire, Raffaele was ice. I needed both.
"You'll coordinate from italy," I told Raffaele. "Enzo will keep the pressure here. Between the two of you, I'll have names before long."
"Yes, Don," Raffaele said.
The line went dead, leaving the silence of the car heavy with tension.
Enzo turned to me, his scar catching the passing streetlights. "What did you think of the doctor?"
I frowned, the question unexpected. "What about her?"
"She didn't flinch," he said, voice gruff. "Most would. You bled all over her floor and she stitched you like she was sewing cloth. That's rare. A woman like that… she's either useful, or dangerous."
I didn't answer right away. My mind replayed the image of Isabella Romano—focused, steady, unafraid. Not softness. Not kindness. Just efficiency.
"She did her job," I said finally. "Nothing more."
Marcello glanced at me, though he didn't speak. He rarely pushed unless it mattered.
Instead, he adjusted his glasses and said, "You should rest. You look like a corpse walking. When was the last time you slept without pills?"
The words grated. "Don't start."
"You want to command men while half-dead? You bleed, you don't sleep, and still you refuse to listen. Even a king needs to close his eyes."
"Do I need to call Dr. Lorenzo Vitale?" Marcello pressed. "He'll remind you himself that insomnia doesn't make you invincible. It makes you sloppy."
My teeth ground together. "Vitale is a leech. Don't speak his name again."
Marcello said nothing after that, but the weight of his silence was louder than any scolding.
---
The hotel was mine, though I hadn't set foot inside for nearly a year. London was never my kingdom—it was a satellite, a place I allowed to live under my shadow.
The car pulled up to the Moretti five star Hotel, a marble giant towering above the Thames. The doormen scrambled when they saw me, straightening, bowing, fear in their eyes. Good. Fear meant respect.
Inside, the lobby gleamed. Gold fixtures, velvet chairs, chandeliers that spilled light across polished floors. Guests murmured in hushed tones, glancing my way before quickly averting their eyes. My presence always changed a room.
The manager, Giancarlo, hurried toward me, sweating despite the cool air. "Signore Moretti. An honor."
"Save it," I said, brushing past him. "We'll speak in my office."
The office sat at the top floor, overlooking the river. My desk was spotless, my chair untouched. Giancarlo followed, nerves buzzing through him like a live wire.
"We've maintained profits," he rushed to say. "Occupancy is high, staff turnover minimal—"
"Spare me numbers. I want order. No chaos. No disrespect. My hotels don't serve as playgrounds for fools."
"Yes, Boss. Of course."
I studied him for a moment, weighing his words, when a commotion broke out in the hall. Raised voices. A crash.
Marcello moved first, opening the door. A crowd had gathered.
At the center was the housekeeper. He was young, lean, with the same dark eyes as Isabella. He stood rigid, his hands clenched, while a guest screamed at him, her dress stained with spilled food.
"You idiot!" the woman shrieked. "You've ruined it! Do you know how much this cost?"
"I didn't spill it on you," the house keeper bit back, his accent sharp. "You tripped over your own damn shoes. Don't blame me for your clumsiness."
Gasps filled the hall. Staff members pulled at him, hissing his name, but he stood his ground.
"Enough," I said, my voice slicing through the noise. The hall went still.
The woman turned, fury on her lips—until her eyes landed on me. Her words died instantly, replaced by a nervous smile.
"Salvatore," she breathed.
Recognition struck me. Her face, though older now, carried echoes of the past. She was Lucia—one of my distractions from years ago. A warm body, a forgettable night, five years buried in memory.
Marcello's expression tightened with distaste. He stepped forward. "This matter should not concern the Boss."
But it did. Everything in my hotel concerned me.
Giancarlo stammered, trying to mediate. "There must be a misunderstanding. The guest will be compensated, and—"
"She insulted me,"the house keeper interrupted. "I won't bow to lies."
The boy had fire, I'd give him that. But fire without discipline burned down houses.
I raised a hand and silence returned. My gaze cut between them—the foolish woman from my past, the defiant young housekeeper, the trembling manager.
"This is my hotel," I said coldly. "There will be no scenes in my halls. The guest will receive compensation. The boy will remember his place. And if I hear another word, both will find themselves outside these walls."
Lucia's mouth snapped shut. The house keeper who i later learnt that his name was domenico romano fists unclenched, though his glare remained.
"Handled," Marcello said firmly, dismissing the crowd.
---
Hours passed before Marcello cornered me again in the office. The night had swallowed the city, and I sat at the desk, staring at untouched whiskey.
"You're running on fumes," he said.
"I'm fine."
"You're not. You haven't slept. You were shot. And you just spent hours dealing with petty hotel drama. This isn't strength, Salvatore—it's suicide."
"I said I'm fine."
Marcello's patience snapped. He reached into his coat, produced a small vial, and set it on the desk.
"You'll take it," he said, voice low, dangerous in its certainty.
My eyes narrowed. "You drug me like a dog, Marcello, and I'll have your head."
He didn't flinch. "Better you threaten me tomorrow, alive and rested, than stumble into another ambush tonight half-dead."
Enzo, leaning in the doorway, smirked. "He's right, Boss. You look like a corpse. Take the damn thing."
The room spun slightly as exhaustion tugged at me, more insistent than ever. My pride fought, but the bullet wound throbbed, and my body betrayed me.
Marcello poured the liquid into a glass of water, pushed it toward me. His stare didn't waver.
I drank.
Minutes later, the world blurred. My eyelids dragged heavy. Marcello's voice was the last I heard.
"Rest, Salvatore. Tomorrow is a new day