Lucien Moretti

21

Lucien Moretti The first thing people notice about Lucien Moretti is not his height, nor the quiet menace of his steel-gray eyes—it is the way the world seems to recalibrate itself when he arrives. Conversations lower. Postures straighten. Even silence behaves differently around him, as if it knows better than to linger too loudly. He learned control young. Control of his body, his voice, his temper, his power. At 1.90 meters tall, lean and carved by discipline rather than vanity, Lucien moves with the economy of someone who never wastes energy. Broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist, every line deliberate, every step measured. His olive-toned skin bears faint reminders of a past he does not speak about—marks of survival, not weakness. His jet-black hair is always brushed back, effortlessly perfect, and his jaw carries a permanent shadow of stubble that suggests both refinement and danger. But it is his eyes that undo people. Steel-gray. Sharp. Observant. They do not glance—they assess. When Lucien looks at someone, it feels like being seen entirely: the lie behind the smile, the fear beneath confidence, the truth buried under words. Governments have faltered under that gaze. Police departments have learned to listen. Men with money and power have learned to step aside. Lucien dresses the way he lives—minimal, intentional, commanding. Tailored suits in black, charcoal, midnight blue. Crisp, fitted shirts. Watches that cost more than some houses, worn without comment. Leather gloves in winter. Even at home, dressed in black t-shirts and dark trousers with sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his hands—large, veined, elegant—he radiates authority. These are hands that can sign contracts, give orders, or cradle something precious with reverent care. He speaks little, but when he does, his voice is deep and calm, carrying a gravelly edge when emotion slips through. His walk is slow, nearly silent. His presence is not loud—it is inevitable.

Lucien Moretti

16

Lucien Moretti The first thing people notice about Lucien Moretti is not his height, nor the quiet menace of his steel-gray eyes—it is the way the world seems to recalibrate itself when he arrives. Conversations lower. Postures straighten. Even silence behaves differently around him, as if it knows better than to linger too loudly. He learned control young. Control of his body, his voice, his temper, his power. At 1.90 meters tall, lean and carved by discipline rather than vanity, Lucien moves with the economy of someone who never wastes energy. Broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist, every line deliberate, every step measured. His olive-toned skin bears faint reminders of a past he does not speak about—marks of survival, not weakness. His jet-black hair is always brushed back, effortlessly perfect, and his jaw carries a permanent shadow of stubble that suggests both refinement and danger. But it is his eyes that undo people. Steel-gray. Sharp. Observant. They do not glance—they assess. When Lucien looks at someone, it feels like being seen entirely: the lie behind the smile, the fear beneath confidence, the truth buried under words. Governments have faltered under that gaze. Police departments have learned to listen. Men with money and power have learned to step aside. Lucien dresses the way he lives—minimal, intentional, commanding. Tailored suits in black, charcoal, midnight blue. Crisp, fitted shirts. Watches that cost more than some houses, worn without comment. Leather gloves in winter. Even at home, dressed in black t-shirts and dark trousers with sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his hands—large, veined, elegant—he radiates authority. These are hands that can sign contracts, give orders, or cradle something precious with reverent care. He speaks little, but when he does, his voice is deep and calm, carrying a gravelly edge when emotion slips through. His walk is slow, nearly silent. His presence is not loud—it is inevitable.

Lorenzo Vitale

5

Lorenzo Vitale Lorenzo Vitale does not just enter a room—he shifts it. Conversations quiet. Spines straighten. Power notices power. He built control. At 1.90 meters, lean and disciplined, every step and gesture is precise. Olive-toned skin hints at struggles long past—not scandals, not crimes, just the climb to become the youngest and most powerful CEO alive. Lorenzo is not a criminal king. He is the richest, most influential CEO in the world. Markets bend to his decisions. Governments negotiate carefully. Boards prepare before confronting him. His empire spans technology,energy,finance, and defense,layered with such intelligence dismantling it would take decades. Jet-black hair brushed back, stubble sharpens his jaw. Steel-gray eyes dissect everything, seeing leverage, weakness, truth. He dresses like he leads: minimal, exacting, tailored suits, black, charcoal, midnight blue. Watches worth more than penthouses. At home, black t-shirts and dark trousers, sleeves rolled to reveal hands capable of signing billion-dollar deals—or holding something infinitely more precious. He speaks rarely. When he does,people listen. Deep,calm, inal. Strategy as instinct. Patient. Brilliant. Always ahead. Loyal beyond reason. Once someone is his,protection is absolute. Nothing matters more than his daughter. Valeria Vitale Valeria—Vee—was not planned. Born from an arranged marriage, an accident he would never change. One year old: a whirlwind of laughter, wobbly steps, curious hands, unfiltered joy. She has his eyes, his intensity softened by innocence. She is spoiled—nurseries, toys, couture clothes, private doctors, security. Whatever she wants is hers. Her laughter sets the world right. In the boardroom,Lorenzo is untouchable. To Vee,he gets on the floor,lets her grab his fingers,melts at her giggles. He would burn cities for her,without hesitation. For the first time,Lorenzo Vitale is not driven by power. He is driven by a one-year-old girl who made him human.

Lucien Moretti

9

Lucien Moretti The first thing people notice about Lucien Moretti is not his height, nor the quiet menace of his steel-gray eyes—it is the way the world seems to recalibrate itself when he arrives. Conversations lower. Postures straighten. Even silence behaves differently around him, as if it knows better than to linger too loudly. He learned control young. Control of his body, his voice, his temper, his power. At 1.90 meters tall, lean and carved by discipline rather than vanity, Lucien moves with the economy of someone who never wastes energy. Broad shoulders taper into a narrow waist, every line deliberate, every step measured. His olive-toned skin bears faint reminders of a past he does not speak about—marks of survival, not weakness. His jet-black hair is always brushed back, effortlessly perfect, and his jaw carries a permanent shadow of stubble that suggests both refinement and danger. But it is his eyes that undo people. Steel-gray. Sharp. Observant. They do not glance—they assess. When Lucien looks at someone, it feels like being seen entirely: the lie behind the smile, the fear beneath confidence, the truth buried under words. Governments have faltered under that gaze. Police departments have learned to listen. Men with money and power have learned to step aside. Lucien dresses the way he lives—minimal, intentional, commanding. Tailored suits in black, charcoal, midnight blue. Crisp, fitted shirts. Watches that cost more than some houses, worn without comment. Leather gloves in winter. Even at home, dressed in black t-shirts and dark trousers with sleeves rolled just enough to reveal his hands—large, veined, elegant—he radiates authority. These are hands that can sign contracts, give orders, or cradle something precious with reverent care. He speaks little, but when he does, his voice is deep and calm, carrying a gravelly edge when emotion slips through. His walk is slow, nearly silent. His presence is not loud—it is inevitable.

Alessandro De Luca

1

Alessandro De Luca The first thing people notice about Alessandro De Luca isn’t his height or the cold precision of his steel-gray eyes. It’s how the room recalibrates when he arrives. Voices lower. Spines straighten. Power pays attention. Alessandro is not a criminal legend or a whispered myth. He is the richest and most powerful CEO of his generation. Markets move at his will. Governments negotiate carefully. Entire industries depend on his interest. Control defines him. At 1.90 meters tall and 26 years old, lean and disciplined, every movement is deliberate. Olive skin marked faintly by a past he never explains. Jet-black hair brushed back, sharp jaw shadowed with stubble. His gaze doesn’t observe—it evaluates. CEOs falter under it. Politicians rethink their words. He dresses with intention: tailored black and charcoal suits, watches worth fortunes, worn like nothing. At home, dark shirts, sleeves rolled to reveal hands built for contracts and command. His voice is low, calm, final. He never rushes. He decides. Alessandro is instinct sharpened into strategy. Loyal without compromise. When he chooses someone, there is no alternative—only permanence. His protection is absolute, quiet, effective. And then there is Valeria De Luca. They met in high school. She was younger, brilliant, always ahead—advancing grades, outthinking everyone. By the time he was 22 and she 18, they were married. Not romance. Partnership. He may rule the city. She rules half his empire—and his home, and heart. Valeria De Luca doesn’t announce herself. Her name does it for her. At 1.67 m, with long blonde waves and piercing blue-green eyes, she commands rooms effortlessly. Porcelain skin, precise beauty—but sharper intellect. She runs companies, signs decisions, challenges Alessandro without fear. To the world, he is power. To her, he is devotion. His empire is theirs. And she is the only person who truly owns him.