Chapter 9
Salvatore Moretti lay on the king-sized bed, pale but awake, his dark eyes opening slowly as the fog of unconsciousness lifted. The sharp scent of antiseptic clung to the air, blending with the faint trace of cigar smoke that still lingered from the night before. His body felt heavy, as though weighed down by invisible chains, but his mind was already clawing its way back into focus.
The doctor, a stern man with graying temples and a voice that carried the weight of authority, had just finished his examination. He stood at the foot of the bed, clipboard in hand, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.
"You must rest, Mr. Moretti," he declared firmly. "At least for the next few days. No strain, no meetings, no late nights. Your body needs to flush out the poison. Bed rest is non-negotiable."
Salvatore's jaw tightened at that single word—poison. He hated the way it sounded, as if it had stained him, tainted his very blood. Rest, he thought bitterly, was a luxury he could never afford. But beside him, Raffaele Mancini, his loyal underboss, stood with arms folded, his expression grim. The silent look in Raffaele's eyes was enough to remind Salvatore that even a Don could not escape certain orders—not from doctors, and not from the weight of his own weakened body.
Bianca Moretti, his younger sister, sat near the headboard. Her long dark hair fell like a curtain as she brushed it back, her eyes sharp with worry. She had not moved from his side since they carried him into the mansion. Her protectiveness, stubborn and fierce, had only deepened with every hour of his unconsciousness.
It had taken both her and Raffaele to convince him to leave the scene of his collapse at the club. Now, within the fortress-like walls of his heavily guarded estate, Salvatore was safe—or as safe as a man like him could ever truly be.
Raffaele cleared his throat, his deep voice breaking the silence. "The night you collapsed… Marcello and I saw something on the security feed. A man was running down the passage. We moved fast, searched every corner. But when we got there, he was gone. Vanished. Guards are still sweeping the grounds, but no trace so far."
Salvatore turned his head slightly, his piercing gaze narrowing at Raffaele's words. His voice, though weakened, carried the same unyielding command that had broken lesser men. "You're telling me someone walked into my club and disappeared into thin air?"
Raffaele's shoulders lifted slightly before he shook his head. "No, Don. Not thin air. He was clever. Fast. Whoever he was, he knows how to move in the dark. But we'll find him. That I promise."
Salvatore closed his eyes for a brief moment. He remembered it clearly—the metallic tang of the drink on his tongue, the dizziness that rushed through him, the sudden weakness that pulled him into darkness. Slowly, he opened his eyes again, pinning Raffaele with his stare.
"Why did I faint?" he asked, his tone low but steady. "Tell me exactly what happened."
Raffaele exhaled heavily, wishing he could delay this revelation, but he knew better. The Don did not tolerate silence. "You were poisoned, Don. That's why you collapsed."
Bianca gasped softly, a sound of disbelief and fear, though Salvatore's face remained carved from stone. The word hung in the air like a death sentence.
"Poisoned," he repeated, his voice flat, cold. His eyes darkened, flickering with barely contained fury. "Who?"
"The waiter. Pietro," Raffaele said carefully. "He was the one who handed you the glass."
For a moment, silence stretched. Then Salvatore laughed, soft but chilling, devoid of warmth. It was the kind of laugh that carried more menace than anger. His head tilted slightly on the pillow, his gaze turning razor-sharp.
"Pietro…" he whispered, the name curling on his tongue like venom. "And where is he now?"
"We have him contained," Raffaele replied. "The men are waiting for your order."
Salvatore's lips curved, though it was far from a smile. "Good. Because if any of them lays a finger on him before I do, they'll regret it." He shifted slightly, ignoring the ache that spread through his body. His voice hardened, steel laced with fire. "His life is mine to take. No one steals that from me."
Bianca shot up from her seat, her face pale with shock. "Salvatore, you need to think about your health first! You can't talk about executions while you're barely able to stand."
He turned his head slowly toward her, fixing her with the kind of look that silenced entire boardrooms. His voice cut clean and merciless. "You think my health matters more than the fact that someone dared to put poison in my blood? No, Bianca. He dies by my hand. That is not negotiable."
She pressed her lips together, torn between fear and fury. She hated his stubbornness, hated the recklessness that burned in him even now. But she knew there were some battles no one could win against Salvatore Moretti—not even his own sister.
"I'll stay by your side," she said firmly. "At least until you're stronger. You can't be left alone when enemies are circling."
But Salvatore's patience had thinned to a razor's edge. He pushed himself higher against the pillows despite the doctor's warning murmur, his voice slicing through the air like a blade.
"No. You're leaving tonight."
Bianca froze. "What?"
"You heard me," Salvatore said, his gaze hard as iron. "Pack your things. You go back to Germany tonight. You don't belong in the middle of this."
"I can't just leave you—"
"You can and you will." His tone dropped, colder, darker. "I wasn't asking, Bianca. I'm ordering you."
Her heart twisted at his words. For a moment, she wanted to scream, to remind him she was his sister, not one of his soldiers. But the fire in his eyes reminded her of who he truly was—not just Salvatore, but the Don of the Moretti family. With resentment simmering beneath her calm, she nodded.
"Fine. If that's what you want."
Salvatore leaned back, eyes briefly closing, satisfied with her reluctant obedience.
It was Raffaele who finally spoke again, his voice steady but deliberate. "Don, don't forget—you've got the award ceremony in Germany next week. It would be unwise to miss it. People will talk. By then, you'll be stronger."
Salvatore's eyes flicked open. Germany. The idea of leaving his empire behind, even for a few days, irritated him. But Raffaele was right. Appearances mattered. Weakness could never be shown—not in business, not in power.
His phone rang, breaking the moment. Bianca handed it to him.
"Enzo," Salvatore said, his tone sharp. "I hope you're calling with good news."
"Yes, boss," came Enzo's voice on the line. "The Don of the Spanish Mafia has fallen."
A low hum vibrated from Salvatore's throat. "How?"
"His pool," Enzo explained. "It was made of glass. It broke suddenly. He fell from the thirty-sixth floor. The police are still investigating why it shattered."
"Good work, Enzo," Salvatore said simply, before ending the call.
"Raffaele," he commanded, his voice regaining strength. "Prepare my outfit for the award. I need to look the best."
"Yes, Don," Raffaele replied without hesitation.
"Good. Everyone out," Salvatore ordered, his tone final. The room emptied, leaving him to his thoughts—dark, violent, and calculating.
---
Across the city, Isabella Romano adjusted the stack of papers on her desk nervously. Her suitcase was already packed by the door, neat and orderly, just as she liked it. The soft hum of her laptop filled the living room as she reviewed her presentation slides for the hundredth time.
The conference in Germany was a dream—an international gathering titled The Future of Global Healthcare: Bridging Communities and Innovations. Months of work had led to this moment. Her research paper, Healing Beyond Borders: Accessible Care for the Forgotten, would be presented before doctors and scholars from across Europe. Her name, her work, her voice—finally heard on an international stage.
On the couch, Chiara lounged with a pillow hugged tightly to her chest. She watched Isabella flit between the desk and her suitcase like a restless bird. "I still can't believe you're leaving me for a whole week," she muttered dramatically.
Isabella chuckled, though her own chest felt heavy with the thought of leaving her best friend. "It's just seven days, Chiara. You'll survive."
"Seven days too many," Chiara huffed. "What am I supposed to do without my partner-in-crime? I'll die of boredom."
"You'll be fine." Isabella zipped the suitcase closed and sat beside her, nudging her shoulder. "Besides, think of all the stories I'll bring back. Germany! Can you imagine?"
Chiara's expression softened. "I'll miss you, Isa."
"I'll miss you too," Isabella admitted, hugging her tightly. "But I'll be back before you know it. One week. That's all."
Later that evening, the two decided to go out. Isabella needed the break—packing and preparations had worn her out.
"You know," Chiara teased as they walked into a dimly lit lounge, "I don't know why you always pack a whole week before you travel."
"I don't like rushing," Isabella replied simply.
"You're already more organized than half the world," Chiara muttered, rolling her eyes.
They ordered drinks—Chiara choosing a bold red wine, Isabella settling for something lighter.
"Today at the clinic wasn't so bad," Chiara said, relaxing against her chair.
"Thankfully," Isabella replied with a small smile.
As they laughed and talked, a man approached their table. He was tall, broad-shouldered, with slicked-back dark hair and a smirk that reeked of arrogance. His shirt clung too tightly to his chest, and the faint stench of alcohol followed him.
"Hi, ladies," he said smoothly, leaning a little too close. "What are two gorgeous women doing here all by yourselves?"
Chiara's eyes narrowed instantly. "We're not interested in having sex."
The man chuckled darkly. "Oh, you've got a smart mouth. I like that. Maybe I'll get to fuck it out of you."
Chiara shot to her feet, fury blazing in her eyes. "What the fuck did you just say to me?"
"Calm down," Isabella whispered quickly, tugging at her friend's arm. Her own pulse raced, but she knew Chiara's temper would only make things worse.
Chiara bristled, but Isabella's grip was firm. With a quiet urgency, she pulled her away from the table, ignoring the man's taunting laughter.
The night ended with Isabella dragging a furious Chiara home, the tension between them heavy but unspoken. Neither of them realized it yet, but their lives were about to cross paths with men far more dangerous than arrogant strangers in bars.