Dante Moretti stood in the rain-soaked alley long after his men had cleared the scene. The city was quiet again — too quiet, except for the echo of dripping gutters and the low rumble of traffic in the distance.
The body was gone. The blood had already begun to fade into the cracks of the concrete, washed away by the storm. To anyone else, it would look like nothing had ever happened.
But Dante didn't forget.
He never forgot.
He replayed the moment in his head — the flash of movement behind the glass door, the gasp, the slam of metal. Her face was burned into his mind: wide, fearful eyes, rain-matted hair, trembling lips. She couldn't have been more than thirty.
A waitress. A civilian.
In his world, civilians weren't supposed to exist. Everyone in Bellagio Heights was touched by the syndicate in one way or another — through debt, protection, business, or blood.
But she had looked pure. Out of place.
And that unsettled him more than it should have.
"Boss," a voice called behind him. It was Matteo Rizzo, his second-in-command. A man Dante trusted more than most — which wasn't saying much.
"She's gone," Matteo said. "Name's Elena Marquez. Works the late shift at the diner. Lives in East Bellagio — small apartment, top floor. She's got a kid."
Dante's jaw flexed. "A kid?"
"Boy. Six, maybe seven. We got her plate number from the cameras." Matteo paused. "You want me to handle it?"
For a long moment, Dante didn't answer. His men expected him to say what he always did — clean it up. That was how he'd kept his empire safe. No witnesses. No loose ends.
But when he closed his eyes, he saw her again. The defiance in her face, even in fear.
He opened his eyes, his voice low and steady. "No."
Matteo blinked. "No?"
"I'll handle her myself."
Elena barely slept.
Every time she closed her eyes, she saw that man — the one from the alley. His expression wasn't like anything she'd seen before. It wasn't rage or shock or guilt. It was control. Cold, absolute control.
The kind of look you only saw in men who didn't make mistakes.
By morning, the black car was gone, but her paranoia wasn't. She got Mateo ready for school, plastering on a smile she didn't feel.
"Can we get pancakes this weekend?" Mateo asked, swinging his little backpack over his shoulders.
"Of course," she said softly. "Pancakes and cartoons. Just us."
She watched him disappear through the school gates before heading to work. The diner looked the same — the same flickering neon, the same smell of burnt coffee — but she couldn't shake the feeling that eyes were on her.
When the bell over the door jingled, she jumped.
"Rough night?" asked her coworker, Gina, a woman in her fifties with a smoker's laugh.
Elena forced a smile. "Just tired."
"Yeah, me too." Gina leaned closer. "You hear about the shooting last night? Cops were crawling all over the west side this morning."
Elena froze. "Shooting?"
"Yeah. Some guy got whacked in the alley behind Louie's Bar. Word is it's tied to one of those mafia families." Gina shrugged. "Not our business, right?"
Elena managed a weak nod.
Not their business. Except it was hers now — in the worst way.
The lunch rush came and went. The clock crept toward two when the door opened again — and the air shifted.
Elena felt it before she saw him.
The conversation at the corner booth went silent. The cook stopped mid-motion behind the counter. Even the radio seemed to lower its volume.
He stepped inside like he owned the place.
The man from the alley.
Up close, he was even more intimidating. His black suit fit perfectly — not flashy, just expensive enough to scream power. His hair was dark, slicked back, his face all sharp lines and quiet danger. His eyes — God, those eyes — found her instantly.
He didn't look surprised. He looked certain.
"Coffee," he said simply, his voice smooth, deep, commanding.
Her throat tightened. "Uh—sure. Sit anywhere you'd like."
He chose the back corner, where he could see both exits. Typical. The predator always faced the door.
Her hands trembled as she poured his coffee. When she placed the cup in front of him, he didn't touch it.
"Thank you, Miss Marquez," he said.
The sound of her name on his lips made her blood run cold. "H-how do you know my name?"
He leaned back, regarding her calmly. "You were there last night."
Her breath caught. "I—I don't know what you're talking about."
His eyes didn't waver. "You saw something you shouldn't have."
Elena stepped back, heart pounding. "I didn't see anything. I swear."
He tilted his head slightly, studying her — not cruelly, but like a man assessing a puzzle. "Lying doesn't suit you."
She swallowed hard. "Who are you?"
He gave a small, humorless smile. "Someone who can make you disappear… or keep you alive."
That made her freeze. "What do you want from me?"
"Nothing," he said simply. "For now." He reached into his jacket, and she flinched — but instead of a gun, he pulled out a folded card and set it on the table.
"If anyone contacts you, anyone you don't know, call this number. Immediately. Understand?"
She stared at the card. No name. Just a number. "Why?"
"Because last night wasn't random. And the people who ordered that hit…" He paused, his gaze darkening. "They don't leave witnesses. Even ones I spare."
Before she could respond, he stood.
"Who are you?" she whispered again.
He turned to leave but looked back over his shoulder, his voice barely above a murmur.
"Dante Moretti."
And just like that, he was gone.
That night, Elena sat at her kitchen table long after Mateo was asleep, staring at the card. The city buzzed outside — sirens, laughter, the hum of traffic — but her world felt very, very small.
She could go to the police. But even as the thought crossed her mind, she knew it was useless. Cops didn't stand up to men like him. Not here.
She could run. But where? Bellagio Heights had eyes everywhere.
Her only choice was to do what she'd done her whole life — keep her head down. Pretend nothing had happened. Protect her son.
Still, she couldn't shake the feeling that Dante Moretti's shadow had already wrapped around her — and that no matter how fast she ran, it would follow.
And somewhere across the city, Dante sat in his office overlooking the glowing skyline, glass of whiskey in hand.
He should have felt relief — the problem contained, the witness warned. But all he could see was her face.
And for the first time in years, the great Dante Moretti felt something dangerously close to curiosity.