Luca Moretti's POV
The night was thick with tension—the kind that lingers after blood has been spilled and loyalty tested.
I sat alone in the back of my Manhattan penthouse office—glass of bourbon in one hand, silencer pistol in the other. The skyline stretched behind me, glittering like the city was too busy to care who just died.
The news had just come in: Carlos betrayed us. Tried to reroute a shipment meant for our West Coast partners.
I ended it myself.
One shot to the head.
Quick. Clean.
Loyalty isn't given a second chance.
The room still smelled of gunpowder and expensive Cuban cigars. My men had dragged the body out ten minutes ago, but the image remained—Carlos's eyes wide with shock, like he didn't believe I'd really do it.
They all make that mistake.
They think the tailored suits, the silent elevator rides, and the soft-spoken tone mean mercy.
But I don't show mercy.
I am the devil in a black tie.
The Moretti name didn't rise from handshakes—it was built in the blood-soaked alleys of Brooklyn, cleaned up in the back rooms of Staten Island, and crowned with fire in Manhattan.
I didn't inherit this empire.
I was raised for it.
And maybe that's the real curse.
Now I control the ports of New York, the tunnels under Jersey, and the flow of weapons and drugs all the way to Los Angeles. Politicians owe me favors. Cops turn a blind eye.
I never knew who my mother was. Not even her name.
The only thing I was ever told was that she ran off—abandoned me and my father when I was barely a toddler. No note. No goodbye. Just vanished.
For years, I waited to hear her voice.
For years, I dreamed she'd return with an explanation.
But nothing.
Not a word. Not a shadow.
Eventually, the stories changed—people said she died. That she was long gone. A ghost.
But my father, Dubious Moretti, never confirmed anything. He just scoffed when I brought her up. Said women were weak. Said she proved it.
And I believed him.
I learned to hate her. Hate the idea of her.
A woman who gave birth to me but couldn't stay. A woman who let my father raise me alone.
But Dubious Moretti wasn't some loving single parent.
He was a cold-blooded ex-mafian—a legend, feared across the five boroughs. His enemies disappeared. His allies bowed when he entered the room.
He called me "soldier" instead of "son."
I learned the business under his watch—guns, codes, silence, blood. He retired five years ago, leaving everything in my hands like it was a throne I'd always been meant to wear.
But even retired, he still calls every damn week, criticizing every move.
"You're too soft, Luca," he says.
"Your heart's your weakness."
If only he knew…
I haven't had a heart since the day my mother disappeared.
---
I am Luca Moretti.
The ghost behind Wall Street.
The reason other crime families stay in line.
So why the hell couldn't I stop thinking about her?
That bar girl.
Rose
The one with the wine-stained hands and frightened eyes.
The one who stood in front of me that night, shaking… but still trying to be proud.
Rose.
She had the nerve to look me in the face like she wasn't afraid.
Even when she bolted out of that VIP lounge, I saw it.
Pain. Anger. Shame. But also… dignity.
She had more spine than most men I've killed.
And I let her walk away.
Why?
Why didn't I stop her? Break her pride? Crush her like I do to anyone who disrespects me?
Because something about her was different.
The rest of them strip their souls before I even speak.
But she—she fought.
She reminded me of someone.
Someone from before I became this… thing.
Don't go there, Luca.
I drained the bourbon and tossed the glass into the fireplace, watching it shatter.
"She'll come back," I muttered. "They always do."
The city eats girls like her alive.
When money runs out and desperation sets in, pride becomes cheap.
Earlier that night, after I stormed out of the LMD Lounge, Marcus—my right-hand man—had asked if we should "deal with her."
Kill her?
Scare her?
Make an example out of her?
It would've been easy.
One word from me, and she'd vanish without a trace.
But I said nothing.
Because something about her... stopped me.
Her hands were shaking, yes—but not just out of fear. I saw something deeper.
Defiance.
In a room full of women selling fantasy, she gave me raw, unfiltered rejection. And for reasons I couldn't explain—not even to myself—it didn't piss me off the way it should have.
It made me curious.
Who the hell was she?
---
I stood and walked inside. The penthouse was silent. Clean. Dead. My life was a routine of blood, business, and brief pleasures.
Money? I had more than I'd ever need.
Power? It bent at my feet.
Loyalty? Paid for or earned through fear.
But that girl? She wasn't impressed by any of it.
She looked at me like I was filth.
And I couldn't stop thinking about her.
Was she stupid?
Was she suicidal?
Or… was she something I haven't seen in a long time?
Real.
---
I grabbed my phone and called Marcus.
"Track her."
A pause on the line. "Sir?"
"The girl from last night. I want her name,