My name is Antonio Moretti.
And if that name makes your stomach twist, it should.
People whisper it in the streets. Some spit it out with fear, some choke on it like poison. Si, I am that man—the one your mother prays you never cross, the one your father tells you to hide from. The name that sends a shiver down the spine. Antonio Moretti. And it belongs to me, just me.
I was born into blood, not fairy tales. My father wore the crown before me—the Don of the Moretti empire, the man everyone feared. My mother? She played her part, but her world was always shadows and silence. And Serene, mia sorella… my sister. She's the only one I love without condition. Twenty-four, married, living her life away from this darkness. I let her. Because family doesn't bleed unless I say so.
Me? I killed when I was six. Don't bother asking why, because in my world you don't wait to learn survival—you either do it or die early. At twelve, I was already second in command. By fifteen, the throne was mine. History still writes it down: Antonio Moretti, the youngest Don to ever rule the Italian underworld. And no one has managed to take it from me. Not yet.
So, who am I? I'm not your savior. I'm not your friend. I'm the cazzo nightmare men pray never knocks at their door.
Tonight was no different.
The streets were quiet when I went hunting. My men told me about a few strays—rats moving where they shouldn't, thinking the Moretti bloodline had gone soft. I could've sent my soldiers to deal with them, but sometimes I like to remind the world who the fuck I am.
Five of them waited in an alley, knives and cheap guns shaking in their hands. Cowards. I stepped out of the car, no mask, no warning.
"You picked the wrong night," I told them.
The first came fast—sloppy, desperate. One strike to his throat, and he went down choking on his own breath. The second aimed his pistol, but I was already on him, twisting his wrist until the bone snapped like glass. The gun dropped, and I emptied a bullet in his skull. The third thought he could run. Stupid. My blade caught his back, carving him down to the concrete.
Blood sprayed, painting the walls like art. The last two froze, eyes wide, muttering prayers. I didn't give them the chance to finish. A bullet each, clean, simple. Silence fell. Just the sound of rain dripping and their blood pooling at my boots.
That's the lesson: you don't cross me. You don't even think about it.
On my way back, I leaned against the seat, gloves still stained red. But my mind wasn't on the fight. It never is, not really. It was on her.
Ell.
She stayed out late. Some cazzo concert, behind the scenes or whatever the hell they're called… BTS, I think. She couldn't even find the place and ended up lost, walking the streets alone in the dark. Too vulnerable. Too tempting for some bastardo to try something stupid.
That's why I went myself. My boys could've stepped in—they were already shadowing her. But they wouldn't send the right message. They wouldn't teach the lesson I wanted taught. Every bastardo out there needed to feel me, to learn. To understand that Ell isn't someone you even dare to glance at. Not if you value your cazzo life.
Ell. Isabella sounds too clean, too angelic. And my world isn't made for angels. That's why she'll always be Ell to me.
By the time I reached the Moretti estate, the blood on my gloves was dry. The gates opened, and the guards bowed their heads like always. I walked in, straight to the main room, where my father was waiting with a glass of wine in his hand. His hair was grayer, his face lined with years of power, but his eyes still carried the same weight.
"You're late," he said.
"I was busy," I replied, tossing the gloves aside. "Cleaning the streets."
He didn't smile. He never does. Instead, he poured another glass and set it down in front of me. "We need to talk."
I sat, not because he asked, but because I felt like it.
"The Romano deal," he said, voice steady. "It's official now. The girl will marry into the family. Soon."
For a moment, silence stretched between us. Then I smirked, leaning back in my chair.
"Thought you were never going to make it official," I said, tone sharp, amused. "Two years of waiting, two years of excuses. About cazzo time."
He studied me, his face unreadable. "This isn't a game, Antonio."
"Nothing is," I muttered, sipping the wine. But inside, the words burned like fire in my chest. Finally. Ell. No more waiting in the shadows. No more hiding what's already mine.
That night, when I went to my room, I stood by the window for a long time. The city lights stretched out like stars, and all I could see was her face. Ell. My little angel. My obsession. My future.
And soon, the world would know it too.