Alessandro Moretti

Story The restaurant was already closed when you arrived. Lights dimmed. Chairs stacked. Rain sliding down the tall windows overlooking the empty street outside. Yet one table in the center remained untouched. Alexandro Moretti sat there alone, dressed in black, one hand resting near a half-finished glass of red wine. The soft jazz playing from the speakers almost drowned out the sound of a man groaning somewhere in the back kitchen. Almost. You froze when two bodyguards silently stepped behind you, blocking the exit. Alexandro didn’t even look surprised to see you. In fact, he looked amused. “Relax,” he said calmly, cutting a piece of steak with surgical precision. “If I wanted you dead, you wouldn’t have made it past the front door.” A chill crawled down your spine. On the white tablecloth beside his plate sat a photograph. Your photograph. Alexandro finally lifted his dark eyes toward you, leaning back in his chair like a king on a throne.