Chapter 6 – Salvatore Moretti pov
The warehouse stank of rust, oil, and blood. Enzo De Luca shoved the captured gunman into a chair that had already been nailed to the cracked cement floor. The man's arms were bound behind him with thick rope, his face already swollen from Enzo's fists.
Salvatore Moretti stepped out of the darkness, his polished shoes clicking softly against the ground. His suit, as always, was immaculate—black tailored wool, a silk tie knotted with precision. He looked more like a man stepping into a board meeting than into a torture chamber, and that made him infinitely more terrifying.
The gunman tried to speak, but his voice trembled. "P-please, I was only—"
The Don raised one gloved hand and silence fell. His cold eyes swept over the man, measuring him like a butcher examines meat. Then he crouched, almost intimate, and spoke with quiet detachment.
"You aimed at me. You tried to take my life. There are rules in our world, and you broke them." He tilted his head. "Now I will break you."
A small table stood to the side, neatly arranged with tools. Knives of varying lengths. Pliers. A blowtorch. Salt. A jug of water. Salvatore chose a thin, curved blade first, turning it in the dim light.
He gripped the man's left hand, pinning it against the chair arm. "Your hands pulled the trigger. Let us start with them."
The first fingernail came off slowly, peeled back with the knife until it ripped away in a slick of blood. The scream that tore through the man's throat was raw, but Salvatore did not pause. He removed the second nail, then the third, methodical, deliberate.
"Each nail is a memory," Salvatore murmured. "A reminder that every action has consequence."
By the time the last nail was gone, the man was sobbing, body convulsing. Salvatore gestured, and Enzo pulled a nylon bag over the man's head. A bucket of water followed, drowning him in suffocating panic. He kicked, thrashed, gasped when they pulled the bag off, only to have it shoved back down again.
When the man's screams began to fade into hoarse whimpers, Salvatore took the blowtorch, igniting a low blue flame. He held it close enough that the heat kissed the man's skin, blistering the sweat on his cheek.
"Fire cleanses," Salvatore said softly. "It strips away lies." He pressed the flame against the man's thigh. The stench of burning flesh filled the air. The man howled, begging incoherently.
Finally, Salvatore leaned close, voice calm against the chaos. "Who sent you?"
The man broke. "The Spaniards! The Spanish mafia—they sent me! I swear on my mother!"
Salvatore's knife stilled. He straightened, expression unreadable. A moment of silence stretched. Then he turned away, wiping the blade clean with a silk handkerchief.
"Enzo," he said, voice as cold as marble. "You will go to Madrid. Find their Don. End him."
Enzo's grin was sharp, eager. "Consider it done, Boss."
Salvatore didn't look back as the broken man sobbed behind him. For him, the message was clear: no enemy struck at Moretti and lived.
---
Hours later, high above the clouds, Salvatore sat in his private jet. The hum of engines filled the cabin, but his mind remained restless. He leaned back, eyes closed, though sleep never came easily.
Marcello Esposito, his consigliere, studied him from across the table. Loyalty made him bold enough to speak. "How are you holding up? Did you sleep at all?"
"Three hours," Salvatore replied without opening his eyes. "Induced. Which means not sleep at all."
Marcello hesitated, then pressed. "You should call Dr. Lorenzo. Tell him the medication is failing. He can—"
Salvatore's eyes snapped open, glinting with warning. "No. My enemies are wolves. They smell weakness. I will not give them blood."
Marcello held his gaze, then nodded, though unease lingered. He had seen the toll insomnia and medication took. The Don's mind was sharp as ever, but his body… sooner or later, it would betray him.
The jet descended toward Naples. Through the windows, the Italian coast glittered like scattered jewels beneath the night.
---
Instead of his penthouse, Salvatore returned to the Moretti estate—ancestral stone walls, guarded gates, the weight of history pressing on every corner. He walked straight into his office, a fortress of oak and leather where generations had carved their empire.
Raffaele Mancini, his underboss, arrived within minutes, face tight with concern. "Don Salvatore, you're back." He looked him over, as though searching for hidden wounds. "How are you feeling?"
Salvatore ignored the question, sliding behind his desk. "Report. Everything that has happened while I was away."
Raffaele exhaled. "Don Reinhardt of Germany has invited you to his annual gathering—the Kronenball. Only Europe's most powerful families will attend. Your presence is expected."
Salvatore's eyes narrowed. Reinhardt's ball was no mere social event; it was a stage of alliances and hidden daggers.
"Your company, Moretti Global Holdings, has also been nominated for Best International Investment Firm at the Milan Financial Awards," Raffaele continued. "The board insists you attend."
Salvatore gave a small nod, though his expression didn't change.
"And…" Raffaele's jaw clenched. "There was trouble at La Rosa Nera, the club. A wealthy patron, Vittorio Romano, tried to force himself on one of our workers. She was saved before the worst happened, but it caused… noise."
The Don's hand tightened around his pen, though his tone stayed cold. "Raffaele. Handle him. Quietly. He never sets foot in my establishments again."
"Yes, Boss."
---
Later that night, the study doors shut, leaving Salvatore alone with his endless papers, his restless thoughts.
In the corridor, Marcello and Raffaele lingered.
"He looks worse than ever," Raffaele muttered, keeping his voice low. "I asked him about his health. He brushed it aside."
Marcello folded his arms, his eyes fixed on the heavy doors. "He will never admit weakness. Not to anyone."
"You know more than you're saying," Raffaele pressed.
Marcello hesitated, then spoke carefully. "In America… after the shootout, there was a doctor. Young. Isabella Romano. She treated him. Clever, bold—different."
Raffaele's brow arched. "And?"
"He didn't say much. But I noticed. She left an impression."
Raffaele smirked faintly, though his eyes held worry. "For Salvatore, that is rare. And dangerous."
Marcello didn't reply. He only glanced once more at the closed doors. Inside, Don Salvatore Moretti drowned himself in work, shadows pressing closer with every sleepless hour.
And somewhere in Naples, unaware of the storm her name stirred, Isabella Romano lived her life—destiny already pulling her into the fire.