Chapter 11
The city lights still shimmered from the aftermath of chaos, though order had been restored on the surface. Beneath the glitter of Munich, shadows whispered of blood spilled and warnings delivered.
Salvatore Moretti sat in the quiet of his suite, a glass of whiskey untouched on the table beside him. His jaw was tight, eyes hard, and his irritation hung in the air like a storm waiting to break. The attack downtown was handled—swiftly, decisively—but it had left its mark on him. Not physically, but mentally. To Salvatore, it wasn't about the men who had died; it was about the message that had been sent.
Someone had dared challenge him in a foreign city. Someone had tried to humiliate him. That fact gnawed at him more than the blood on the pavement.
He leaned back against the sofa, fingers tapping against the armrest in controlled agitation. His thoughts kept circling back to Italy. He longed to return to Naples, to the sanctuary of his mansion, to the soil that still smelled of his family's legacy. Italy was home. Italy was where he could regroup and strike back on his own terms. But his exile, though self-imposed, was not yet over.
There was the Kroneball.
The annual gathering of Europe's underworld elite. A ball draped in elegance, but beneath the polished marble floors and champagne flutes, it was nothing but a parade of predators dressed in silk and satin. Don Reinhardt, the German kingpin who ruled with the precision of a chess master, was expecting him. Reinhardt had heard of his survival, and attendance was not optional.
Salvatore knew well that power was perception. If he skipped the ball, whispers would spread. Doubts would be planted. But if he walked into that hall, dressed in power itself, he would remind every eye that watched him that the Moretti name still carried authority.
A tailor-made three-piece suit hugged his frame when he finally emerged from his suite. Black wool, sharp lapels, and a waistcoat that buttoned with understated luxury. The cufflinks—gold, engraved with the Moretti crest—caught the dim light. His hair was slicked back, his beard trimmed to perfection. He was not just a man attending a ball; he was a Don making a statement.
Descending the stairs into the lobby, his gaze swept across the room with instinctive vigilance. He noticed Marcello before Marcello noticed him—standing with Isabella Romano, her hands gesturing animatedly as she spoke.
Salvatore's steps were measured, deliberate. His polished shoes struck the marble floor with quiet authority. As he drew closer, his sharp ears caught the words slipping from Marcello's lips.
"…I've already booked the ticket. You'll be safe, Isabella. Trust me."
Salvatore's jaw clenched. He didn't like conversations that took place outside his knowledge, especially when they involved her.
Marcello noticed his approach first. He straightened immediately, his body language shifting into that of a soldier before his commander. Isabella, however, turned with the kind of curiosity that only ignorance could allow.
"Mr. Moretti," she said, her eyes wide, "what happened downtown?"
Salvatore's gaze flicked to her, cool and unreadable, but he gave her no answer. Instead, he turned to Marcello.
"We leave for the ball. Now."
His voice was clipped, final. He walked past them without breaking stride.
But Isabella wasn't finished. Her heels clicked rapidly as she followed, darting in front of him to block his path.
"I asked you a question!" she snapped, her hands clenched at her sides. "You can't just ignore me. Your friend told me you handled the incident. Do you think I wouldn't find out?"
The lobby quieted around them, the tension drawing eyes from staff and guests alike.
Salvatore stopped. Slowly, he turned his head to her, his dark eyes holding no patience. He spoke without raising his voice, and yet his words carried the weight of a storm.
"Dr. Romano," he said, "you have a flight to catch. Go to the airport. Do not repeat yourself."
He stepped to move past her, but Isabella reached out impulsively and grabbed his wrist.
Her touch was light, but the act itself was a provocation. No one touched Salvatore Moretti without permission.
"You just dismissed me?" she demanded, her voice trembling with both fear and defiance. "I'll go to the police, Mr. Moretti. I'll report what happened downtown. And then I'll get the answers you're hiding from me."
The world seemed to still around them.
Salvatore turned, his wrist slipping free of her grasp with effortless precision. He moved closer, so close that the faint scent of his cologne wrapped around her, dark and intoxicating. His lips dipped near her ear, his words whispered in a tone that carried more menace than a shouted threat.
"I hate repeating myself," he breathed. "You have a flight to catch. Go to the airport."
He leaned back, his expression once again the calm mask of a Don. Turning to Marcello, he switched to Italian, his words laced with steel.
"Assicurati che arrivi a destinazione. If she causes me problems again, eliminate her. I hate nuisances—you know that."
Then, without another glance, he walked out of the lobby.
Marcello exhaled slowly, caught between his loyalty and his conscience. Isabella stood frozen, her heart pounding in her chest. She had seen his eyes up close—cold, merciless. She had felt the edge of the abyss that surrounded him.
"Come," Marcello said finally, his tone firm but not unkind. "I'll take you to the airport."
On the drive, Isabella sat in silence, her mind racing with fragments of fear and stubborn curiosity. Marcello spoke occasionally, his words carefully chosen.
"You were just in the wrong place at the wrong time," he told her. "The incident downtown—it's been handled. Reported to the authorities. You don't need to worry about it. Focus on your work. Don't let this… world affect you. It's not meant for you."
His voice softened slightly. "Forget tonight, Isabella. Let it go."
She turned to him, her lips parting as if to argue, but no words came. She knew deep down that she was in over her head, but a fire burned within her nonetheless. She wanted the truth.
At the airport, Marcello watched until she boarded the flight. He stood by the glass, arms folded, as the plane lifted into the night sky. Only then did he allow himself a quiet sigh of relief.
Duty called him back.
By the time Marcello returned to the city, the ball was winding down. The Kroneball had been as Salvatore predicted—a gathering of liars and opportunists, where every smile masked a knife. Salvatore had played his part, shaking hands, exchanging pleasantries, letting the weight of his presence fill the room. But the charade exhausted him.
When Marcello found him, Salvatore was already leaving, coat draped over his shoulders, his laptop bag slung casually in one hand.
"So," Marcello said, falling into step beside him, "how was the ball?"
Salvatore's lip curled into a faint, humorless smile.
"What do you expect from a place where everyone hides behind fake pleasantries?" he muttered. "Masks, lies, empty glasses. Nothing of value."
Marcello nodded, saying nothing.
They stepped into the waiting car, the city night swallowing them. As the vehicle pulled away, Salvatore opened his laptop, his fingers dancing across the keys with practiced efficiency.
"When we return to Italy," he said, his voice calm, almost detached, "get me Vincenzo. He's responsible for the attack today."
The glow of the laptop reflected in his eyes as he scrolled through encrypted files. His voice, though quiet, carries the weights of judgment already passed, "And when we find him...." Salvatore's lips curved into something between a Smile and a snarl he will learn what it means to betray me.