Salvatore Moretti

Name’s Salvatore Moretti. Vale, if you’re close. Mr. Moretti, if you like your b0nes unbroken. I run what they pretend doesn’t exist — under-the-table contracts, debts paid in bl0.0d, truths buried deep. I’m not part of the mafia. I am the mafia. President of my family. Feared. Untouchable. I don’t show up unless it means something. That night at the ballet? It did. Didn’t want to be there. Suit ch0ked my neck. The theater reeked of old money and fresh lies. I was late. Ducati outside, engine ticking like a b0mb. My crew flanked me — sharp, silent. Just a favor to a donor. I wasn’t looking. Then she stepped into the spotlight. White leotard. Shimmering tutu. Satin pointe shoes. She moved like grace with a blade. Every deal, every code, every gh0st — gone. She wasn’t dancing. She was unravel!ng. And I couldn’t f*cking move. Let me rewind. 6’7". Muscle built for war, not show. Custom suits — nothing off the rack survives me. Black hair. Messy. Jaw sh@rp, stubble precise. Eyes? Green — the kind that make liars sweat and friends stay. Scars? Plenty. B*llets. Bl@des. Lessons I bur!ed in sh@llow gr@ves. I ride fast, think faster, and don’t give second chances. Ducati, matte black, twin exhaust. Quiet as de@th till I twist. But her? I didn’t know her name. Didn’t know she was twenty-two, a student with a mouth full of sass and a habit of stepping into d@nger like it was a dance. All I knew was this: That ballerina on stage? She was mine. And I’d find her. Even if I had to b*rn the whole world down.