Chapter 7
The glass doors of Moretti Global Holdings slid open with a whisper, spilling light across the marble floor. It had been a week since Salvatore Moretti last walked into the headquarters of his empire, yet the entire building seemed to hold its breath the moment he entered.
Employees froze. Conversations halted. Eyes followed him in reverence and fear.
"Sir Moretti!"
Davide Caruso hurried after him, a tablet clutched in his hands. Young, ambitious, and always half out of breath when chasing his boss's stride, Davide was both terrified of disappointing him and quietly in awe of his presence.
"Sir, welcome back," he began, words tumbling quickly. "Since your absence, the Milan office finalized the acquisition of Aurora Shipping Lines. All contracts are signed and filed. However, the Dubai investors are disputing the Vanguard Expansion Contract. They claim the figures don't align with their projections, and they've requested your personal oversight."
Salvatore didn't slow. His pace was measured, precise, the march of a man who owned more than just the company but the silence around it.
"And?" he asked, voice clipped.
Davide swallowed. "Your sister, Bianca, called this morning. She said she'll be arriving in Italy tomorrow."
That made Salvatore pause. Just for a breath. His sister's name carried weight—equal parts warmth and storm. He resumed walking, expression unreadable.
"I'll deal with Bianca when she arrives."
"Yes, sir. Of course." Davide fumbled with his notes. "There is also Mr. Alessandro Vitale. He refuses to finalize the Caravaggio Investment Treaty unless he speaks directly with you. He said no one else has authority."
Salvatore's mouth curved—not into a smile, but into something sharper. "Vitale enjoys testing limits. Very well. Schedule a meeting."
"Shall I arrange a Zoom call?" Davide asked.
"Tonight. I want it finished."
"Yes, sir."
They reached the elevator. As the doors closed, Davide caught a fleeting glimpse of the Don's reflection—dark circles under his eyes, skin pale beneath the immaculate veneer. It unsettled him. Salvatore looked like a man carved from iron, yet for the first time Davide thought he saw the cracks beneath the steel.
He said nothing, of course. In this world, to voice such a thought was to betray the image the Don demanded. And Davide valued his life too much to make that mistake.
---
By nightfall, the city belonged to Salvatore again.
The black Maserati carried him through Naples, past neon lights and alley shadows where his name was both prayer and curse. When the car pulled up at La Notte Oscura, one of his most profitable clubs, the music was a distant thrum beneath the fortress of walls and glass.
The club glittered for the public, a temple of excess and seduction. But upstairs, behind locked doors, it was another world entirely: ledgers written in shadows, coded conversations, and rivers of laundered money flowing invisibly across borders.
Salvatore walked into his office, a room of dark wood, leather, and steel—a king's chamber overlooking his kingdom of sin.
Giulio Ferrante, the capo in charge of laundering, entered swiftly. He carried himself with the sharp professionalism of a banker, though the sweat at his temple betrayed the pressure of handling billions in blood-stained money.
"Don Moretti," Giulio said with a respectful bow of the head. "The Zurich transfers cleared successfully. The Colombians received their cut, and the Madrid routes are already being processed through the Adriatic fronts. Everything is clean."
Salvatore's eyes flicked over him, unreadable. "Keep it that way."
"Yes, Don." Giulio bowed again and left, eager to escape the weight of those cold eyes.
Moments later, Raffaele Mancini stepped in without ceremony. Unlike Giulio, he was family in all but blood, the underboss who spoke truth where others offered only fear.
"You're pushing too hard," Raffaele said, closing the door behind him. "Spain, Germany, now Dubai. Contracts, enemies, politics. Even iron bends when it's struck too many times."
Salvatore leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled. "Candles are meant to burn."
"Until nothing's left but smoke," Raffaele countered, his voice low. "Bianca called me too. She's worried. I'm worried."
Salvatore turned away, gazing out the window where Naples sprawled in restless beauty below. "Worry is wasted energy. Spend it elsewhere."
Raffaele opened his mouth to push further—but the sound died in his throat.
Salvatore's hand trembled on the desk. His eyes unfocused. Then, without warning, the Don's body swayed.
"Salvatore?"
The word barely left Raffaele's lips before the Don collapsed. Papers fluttered to the floor as his body struck the hardwood.
"Dio mio—!" Raffaele lunged forward, catching him just in time. He lowered him onto the leather couch, his chest tight with a fear he hadn't felt since boyhood.
The guards outside rushed in, faces draining of color when they saw their king broken.
Raffaele barked orders like a storm. "Call Marcello. Get Dr. Lorenzo—now! And listen carefully: not a whisper leaves this room. If anyone breathes a word outside these walls, I will bury them myself."
The guards nodded frantically, scattering into action.
Raffaele looked down at Salvatore, pale and motionless against the dark leather. For years, he had seemed untouchable, a man carved from steel and shadow. Now, for the first time, the mask had shattered.
And Raffaele understood with icy clarity: the Moretti empire was only as strong as the man who ruled it. If Salvatore fell, everything would crumbles.