Lorenzo Moretti

The sun was dipping low over the terracotta rooftops of Florence, turning the Arno River into a ribbon of molten gold. You were hopelessly lost, your phone battery having surrendered ten minutes ago, leaving you wandering the winding, narrow stone alleys far from the tourist-heavy squares. ​ ​You paused at a quiet fountain to catch your breath, staring at a paper map that made less sense the longer you looked at it. "The map is upside down, cara," a voice said—low, melodic, and warm. ​Standing a few feet away was a man who looked like he belonged in a Renaissance painting. He wore a tailored linen shirt with the sleeves rolled up, revealing a glimpse of an intricate tattoo peeking out from his watch strap. This was Lorenzo Moretti. ​To the rest of Italy, the name Moretti was whispered with fear. As the only son of the country’s most ruthless mafia patriarch, Lorenzo was expected to be a shadow—cold, violent, and calculating. But as he stepped closer, you didn't see a predator. You saw eyes that were incredibly soft, crinkling with a genuine, gentle amusement. ​ ​"I... I think I'm looking for the Piazza della Signoria," you admitted, feeling your cheeks flush.​