Chapter 5 5.
Michael Moretti.
The air in L'Eclissi smelled heavy reeking of expensive filtered tobacco and the ozone of a high-end security system.
“Boss, do you need anything?, I could ask one of the waiters to bring something.“
Michael Moretti waved his hands.
L’Eclissi is a club owned by Michael. Where he runs and carries out his Dirty work.
Michael Moretti sat in the corner, where the shadows of the velvet curtains could swallow him whole if the wrong person walked in through the front door.
Across from him, Yuri Volkov leaned back, his leather jacket creaking. Yuri is tall, has a jagged nose, knuckles mapped with scars, and eyes that held the flat, grey light of a Siberian winter.
"The girl," Yuri said, his voice a low grate. "My father is not a patient man, Michael. He sees the Moretti name on a map, but he does not see the Moretti boots on the ground. I want to know if the asset is as liquid as you promised."
Michael didn’t flinch. He picked up a crystal tumbler with the ice clinking a steady, rhythmic beat against the glass. He didn't look like a man who had spent the last decade in the "shallows" of business but a king waiting for his crown to be returned from the jeweler.
"Elena is not a 'liquid asset,' Yuri. She is the centerpiece," Michael replied, his voice a smooth, dangerous silk. "She has spent years building a reputation as the 'Voice of Florence.' The public loves her and politicians fear her. When she marries into the Volkov family, you don’t just get a bridge into Italy but a shield that the law cannot touch."
"And is she... compliant?" Yuri leaned forward, a small, ugly smile tugging at his mouth.
Michael felt a flicker of something in his chest though not guilt. He thought of Elena, of the way she used to look at him with those wide, trusting eyes when she was a child. He had spent twenty years teaching her how to be strong, how to be brave, and how to be his redeeming perfect prize.
"She is my daughter," Michael said, his eyes narrowing. "She does what is necessary for the family. By the time I bring her to you, she will understand that her 'career' was merely a dress rehearsal for her real life."
Yuri grunted, standing up. He dropped a heavy, thick envelope onto the black glass table. "This deposit for the private army you requested. My father expects the girl to be in Zurich by the end of the month. If she is not... well, Michael, you know how we handle broken contracts."
Michael didn't watch him leave but waited until the heavy soundproof doors clicked shut before he allowed his shoulders to drop a fraction of an inch. He opened the envelope…Cash, bundles of it. The smell of ink and power. This was the fuel that would help him burn the Romanos out of Florence and put him back on the throne that had been stolen from him.
He leaned back, his mind drifting to a night sixteen years ago.
\---
1998\. The Moretti Villa.
When Michael Moretti was addressed as Don-Moretti.
The smell of gunpowder was everywhere. It was sharp, acidic, and it clogged the back of everyone's throat. Outside the heavy oak doors of the study, he could hear the wet thuds of bodies hitting the floor and the rhythmic pop-pop-pop of suppressed weapons.
"Daddy? Why is the light off?"
Four-year-old Elena stood in the doorway, clutching a tattered stuffed rabbit. Her mahogany hair was a mess of curls, and her eyes were huge, slightly reflecting the moonlight streaming through the window.
Michael stood by the window, watching the red laser dots dance across the lawn. He saw the snipers and knew that if he ran for the safe room, they would catch him in the open. They were waiting for a clear shot at him.
Suddenly, the study door burst open. Two men in black tactical gear stepped in with their barrels leveled at his chest.
Michael’s heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He looked at the men, then at Elena.
"Come here, piccola," Michael whispered, his voice cracking.
Elena ran to him, sobbing, her small arms wrapping around his leg. He grabbed her by the waist and hoisted her up, pinning her against his chest like a vest. He felt her small heart racing against his own, her tears hot and wet against his neck.
The gunmen froze. The red laser dots moved, fluttering across Elena’s small back, dancing on her curls, but they didn't settle on Michael’s head. They couldn't… it was the Romano code—the old code that forbade the shedding of innocent blood.
Michael backed toward the hidden door in the bookshelf, his eyes locked on the killers. He used her as a wall of flesh.
"Don't move," the gunman hissed, but his hand was shaking.
Michael reached the latch, slipped inside, and slammed the reinforced steel door shut. Only then did he set her down. He didn't tell her it was okay. He just wiped the sweat from his forehead and looked at the girl who had just bought him his life.
You’re worth more than gold, Elena, he had thought then. And one day, I'll spend you.
\---
Back in the present, Michael took a long pull of his scotch. The burn felt good. It reminded him he was alive.
His private phone—the one that sat on a velvet charging pad, disconnected from any grid—vibrated.
Michael frowned. No one was supposed to call this line and certainly not today. He picked it up, his thumb hovering over the "accept" icon with a visible flash of irritation across his face. He expected his informant in Florence to tell him the gala was a success.
"Speak," he commanded.
At first, there was only the sound of wind. Then, a sharp, ragged sob.
"Dad? Dad, is that... is that you?"
The glass in Michael’s hand stopped halfway to his lips. The voice was Elena’s, but the poise was gone and her voice was cracked, sounding small and terrified, just like she had in the study all those years ago.
"Elena?" Michael’s voice remained low, but his grip on the glass tightened until his knuckles turned white. "Where are you? Why aren't you at the apartment?"
"She isn't at the apartment, Michael. She’s at my table."
The new voice was deep, resonant, and carried the effortless authority of a man who had never had to ask for anything in his life.
Michael knew that voice. He scans his brain to make out the familiarity of the voice.
"Salvatore Romano," Michael hissed, the name tasting like poison.
"I have to admit, Michael, I’m impressed," Salvatore said, his tone almost conversational, though the underlying threat made the hair on Michael’s arms stand up. "You sent an informant to check if I have eyes on my turf and as if that's not enough you're moving cocaine from my borders.”
“You've really got the mind…I'm impressed.”
Michael felt the cold seeping into his bones.
"But," Salvatore continued, and Michael could almost hear the grim smile in his voice, "I've got a peculiar way of honouring misguided fellas like you.” “ Ohhh, I'm still very much coming for you.”
That's when Michael realised… The Romano family.
“But…Which?”
“But I believe we have a lot more to discuss, I have your daughter here and she’s safe. But…for now."
"What do you want?" Michael asked, his voice shaking with a rare, uncontrollable rage. "Name the price. I have the funds."
"I don't want your money, Michael. I want your head, to lay emphasis on my reign and to raise a standard for whom wishes to dare in the future."
There was a muffled sound on the other end—a protest from Elena, then the sound of the phone being moved.
"I’m not calling to negotiate," Salvatore said, his voice dropping to a deadly, final register. "I’m calling to tell you to clear your schedule. I’m coming over for a conversation. And Michael?"
"What?"
"Don't bother calling your Russian friends. I’ve already sent them a gift they won't forget."
The line went dead.
Michael stood in the silent, dark club, the phone still pressed to his ear. The ice in his glass had melted, leaving the scotch watered down and pale. He looked
at the Russian contract on the desk—the paper that was supposed to be his ticket back to the throne.
Then he turned to his guard.
“Send words to SNAKE EYES—-The War has just begun…”