Chapter 13 Ren
The alarm rings, shrill and insistent. I hit it without opening my eyes. The idea that woke me in the middle of the night isn’t gone. On the contrary, it’s sharper now, clearer. Brilliant, if I say so myself. At least, brilliant to me.
I swing my legs off the bed and stand, stretching. The room is quiet except for the faint hum of the city outside my window. I glance at the dark curtains, think about how my men would probably laugh if I told them my plan. They’d probably call me mad. Let them. It doesn't matter.
I dress quickly, choosing a dark tailored suit. Shoes polished, tie straight, cufflinks gleaming. I look in the mirror. Sharp and dangerous. Just how I like it.
By 8:30 a.m., I’m walking through the sliding glass doors of my fashion company. The lobby is pristine. Modern and expensive. The smell of fresh leather and faint cologne lingers in the air. My nameplates shine, my products display like art. Every piece I touch, every brand I control, screams wealth and precision.
Monica, my secretary, is waiting at her desk, already scanning through a stack of papers. Her heels click lightly against the floor as she stands when I approach.
“Morning, sir,” she says, holding out a pile of contracts, invoices, and production notes.
“Morning,” I reply, taking the documents. My eyes dart across the first page. Production delays on the new handbag line. Subcontractor issues with a batch of watches. A shipment of sunglasses stuck at customs.
“Board meeting at ten,” Monica says, almost as a warning. “All members will be around.”
I grunt. “Naturally. Nothing says ‘we run a business’ like watching people argue over what we already decided last week.”
She smirks but doesn’t respond. She knows better than to challenge me before coffee. I toss the contracts on the desk and pull up the designs for the next season on my tablet. Jackets, suits, handbags, shoes, watches, sunglasses, hats, jewelry. Every single product has to be flawless. Top quality. Expensive. Every piece a mark of me.
The clock ticks fast and slow all at once. I flip pages, annotate designs, approve some, reject others. I mutter under my breath, cussing softly when the printer jams or a supplier sends a half-baked solution.
By ten, I’m in the boardroom. Marble floors gleam, a long mahogany table stretches across the room. Leather chairs line each side. Board members murmur quietly, papers shuffled. When I step in, they stop. Eyes on me. Sharp. Respectful. A little fear. Good.
“Let’s get started,” I say, my voice calm and controlled.
The meeting begins. Charts. Stock trends. Competitor analysis. Marketing strategies. Product launches. I let them speak, weigh their words, listen. Occasionally, I interrupt with a sarcastic remark. “If your solution requires magic, we can hire a wizard. Otherwise, try something realistic.” Some smile. Some scowl. I don’t care.
“Luca,” one board member says, adjusting glasses, “lowering prices could increase volume. Capture the market share.”
I stare at him. “Lower prices? Are we selling fashion or cereal?” I scowl. “This brand is exclusive. Diluting it will ruin everything we built. No.”
Another raises a hand. “Some designs aren’t selling. Maybe we—”
“Maybe you need better taste,” I cut him off, letting my voice slide just above polite. “We don’t produce leftovers. We produce perfection. Understand?”
They nod, quietly. They understand. Not that they have any choice not to.
Hours pass. I sign contracts. Reject offers. Argue production delays. Adjust delivery timelines. Check reports. Make calls. Monica brings papers, coffee, and more contracts. Every now and then, I glance at the clock. Time moves slowly, and I grow impatient.
By three pm, I’ve had enough. I lean back in my chair and rub my face.
“Monica,” I say, voice calm but sharp. “Cancel all my meetings for the rest of the day. Every single one.”
She blinks. “Are you sure, sir?”
“Yes. Unless you want to attend them in my place. Go ahead.”
She suppresses a laugh. “Yes, sir.”
I grab my jacket. The elevator dings, smooth and silent. I step out onto the street. The city hums, cars rushing, people moving. I ignore them. My mind is on the next location, the one where no one outside my inner circle can reach me.
The drive is quiet, the city fading behind me. Outskirts now. Trees and high walls. My mansion waits, fortress-like. Guards stationed at strategic points. Security cameras feed into my monitors. Every entry secured. Every escape blocked. Soundproofed walls. Just perfect.
I step out of the car. Leather shoes crunch against gravel. Guards nod. I nod back. No words. Respect. Fear. Loyalty. I like it that way.
I step into the foyer, and the moment I cross the threshold, the polished veneer of Luca D’Angelo falls away. Leather shoes on marble, suit impeccable, but now the air bends differently around me. I am no longer the billionaire CEO. I am Lorenzo Moretti. The most wanted man in the city.
Matteo De Luca, my underboss, stands immediately. Cold eyes, efficient, loyal beyond reason. Alessandro Vitale, my consigliere, leans lightly against the wall, arms folded, calm as always, but there’s a spark of curiosity in his eyes. Capos Ferraro, Ricci, and Bellini line up near the long table.
“Gentlemen,” I say, voice low but carrying. “Sit.”
They do. Immediately. Eyes on me, probably wondering why I set up an impromptu meeting.
I pause, letting them stew in silence. Let them wonder. Let them anticipate. Then I drop the bomb.
“I’ll be joining the army as a new recruit. Scratch that,” I add, pacing slowly before the table. “I have joined already, and I’ll be resuming duties later today.”
The room goes very silent as all eyes stare at me in bewilderment.
Enzo is the first to break the ice. “Did you fall and maybe hit your head on your way here, boss?” His voice is smooth, laced with mockery.
I glare at him. Sharp and deadly. The kind of glare that could make a man’s knees buckle if he weren’t careful.
Enzo raises his hands, calm now. “It was just a question,” he adds quickly.
Matteo exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Does this perhaps have something to do with Captain Russo?”
“Captain Russo?” Rayhan’s voice booms. Hot-tempered as always. “Who the hell is that?”
I raise an eyebrow. Matteo, seeing the look in my eyes, steps in. “Shall I tell them, or will you, boss?”
I let my eyes sweep the room, deadly calm. Matteo sighs. “Fine. You all better sit down for this.”
He explains: Russo, the general’s daughter, trained, smart and dangerous. Survived the raid. Almost killed Ren. And now, she is the target of military scrutiny in the city. My plan? Infiltrate. Observe. Control. And if necessary… manipulate.
Marco’s hand slams the table. “So… wait. Let me get this straight. You have a weird obsession with the daughter of the General after your life? The same girl who tried to kill you during the raid? The same one that wants you dead?”
I don’t smile. I mutter, low and calm. “I never said it was a good idea.”
Marco’s fists curl. “It’s a terrible idea!”
Alessandro leans back slightly, thoughtful. “Why this all of a sudden?” His voice is smooth and precise and measured. “What changed?”
I glance at each of them slowly, deliberately. “I’m not doing this because of the Captain. I’ll admit, she’s an added bonus. But this is for the organization. What better way to know the movements of the army than being one of them?”
Matteo’s lip curls, mock-pouting. “You can assign the task to someone else. Surely someone less… suicidal.”
I let a slow smile play on my lips. “I don’t trust anyone but myself.”
“Ouch,” Matteo mutters, raising his hands in mock defeat. “That hurts.”
Rayhan slams his hand on the table, leaning forward. “You’re insane. You’ll get yourself killed working alongside the enemy.”
“I’m aware,” I say softly, pacing again. My shoes click on the marble floor. “I also know I won’t.”
Capo Enzo leans back in his chair, smooth as ever, though his eyes are sharper than usual. “You’re asking for trouble, boss. You go in, and the army’s going to notice something is off. Someone’s going to get suspicious. Or worse—someone’s going to shoot you.”
I shrug lightly, expression unreadable. “That’s why it’s me. I’m careful. Precise. You all are too predictable. You’d make mistakes. I won’t.”
Marco growls, slamming a fist again. “You’re being reckless! We just lost men in the raid! And now you want to play soldier?”
“I play soldier every day, Marco,” I reply, calm, deadly serious. “Just now, it’s in plain sight.”
Alessandro leans forward, voice soft but cutting. “Ren, think this through. This is highly irregular. You’re risking exposure. Military intelligence is not something to mess with. If they suspect anything… you could bring the entire organization down on yourself and on us. Everything you've worked for will go down the drain.”
I pause. Let that hang. Let it sink.
Then, finally, I snap. Tired of questions, of protests, of hesitation. “My decision is final. You have a problem with it—hug a fucking pole.”
Silence. Shock. They blink. Some shift in their seats. Matteo leans back, rubbing his jaw slowly, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. “You’re really confident, boss. I like it.”
Enzo mutters, almost to himself, “You’re good to be working alongside the enemy, Ren. You’re also really good at dying in style.”
I turn to him, my eyes sharp and cold. “Trust me. I won’t.”
Rayhan slams his palm onto the table again, frustration crackling in the air, then points a finger at me. “You’re insane.” It it was someone, he probably would have lost his finger for that alone.
“I’m careful,” I reply, voice low, deliberate. “Calculated. Nothing moves without me controlling it.”
Matteo leans forward, voice soft, resigned. “Fine. We follow. But if you die, boss… I’ll kill whoever’s standing in my way first.”
Marco grumbles under his breath. “And I’ll be second.”
Alessandro smirks faintly. “And I’ll probably just clean up the mess.”
I fold my arms, looking at each man in turn. “Good. Then we understand each other. Everyone else can protest, complain, or whine—but the plan moves forward. No debate. No hesitation. No questions. I want every single one of you to put your trust in me. Trust that I will not fail.”
Enzo shakes his head. “And Russo? This Captain? If she catches you…”
“I’m aware,” I say again. “But I am not anyone’s prey. She’s smart. I like smart. Let her try.”
The room is heavy with tension, energy tight as a wire. Every man knows the stakes. Every man knows that Ren Moretti is unpredictable, dangerous, and completely unbound and also completely crazy, too and maybe a little bit suicidal.
Matteo finally exhales, leaning back. “Fine. For now. We follow. But you better have a damn plan for everything, boss. Or this city’s going to burn around us.”
“I do,” I say. My voice is quiet but sharp, slicing through the room. “And if it doesn’t work, I’ll adapt. Always.”
Marco leans forward, eyes blazing. “Just don’t drag the rest of us into your death wish.”
“I won’t,” I say, with a faint smirk. “But I won’t leave anyone behind, either. That’s not how I operate.”
Alessandro tilts his head, thoughtful. “Then we move,” he says finally. “But we do it smart. Calculated. If Russo is the key… then she’s the key. But we tread carefully.”
I nod. “Careful is boring. But fine. Calculated, yes. And ruthless, always.”
The room exhales as one, the tension easing slightly. Each man knows this is only the beginning. And they know better than to question me again.
I lean against the window, watching the sun dip behind the trees. Somewhere out there, unaware, Captain Russo begins her day, thinking she’s safe.
She isn’t.
Not yet.
Not for long and I honestly can't wait to see the expression on her face when I become her recruit.