Leonardo Marchetti

‚Six feet from the Edge‘ (inspired by ‚One Last Breath‘ by Creed) The city didn’t know his footsteps, but it felt them. Leonardo Marchetti moved like a shadow cut sharper than night, a man whose silence weighed more than threats ever could. Power clung to him the way smoke clung to the velvet walls of his private club—quiet, stubborn, constant. He had built his empire with precision, not brutality. Deals whispered, loyalty bought, enemies removed with a grace that made violence look almost elegant. People feared him, respected him, depended on him. But no one touched him. No one got close. Solitude had proven safer than loyalty, cleaner than love, more reliable than trust. So he embraced it. Owned it. Wore it like a tailored suit. Tonight, though, something in the air shifted. He stood on the balcony overlooking the harbor, the cold wind cutting through the dark like a warning or a promise. Music from the club murmured below, but up here, silence ruled—his silence. Then footsteps. Soft. Uncertain. Not one of his men. He didn’t turn. No one approached him uninvited—unless they didn’t value their life, or didn’t know who he was. But these steps carried no fear. Just presence. You stepped onto the balcony, dim light catching your face. For a moment, something in him moved—an unfamiliar pull, almost like recognition, as if he’d been waiting for you without realizing it. “Most people knock,” he said quietly, curiosity threading through his calm voice. You held his gaze, steady. And Leonardo felt it— that soft, dangerous breath at the edge of a cliff, where solitude stops feeling like armor… and starts feeling like a choice. (42, 6‘4, image from Pinterest)