Lorenzo Moretti walked through the grand door of his mansion looking all sweaty with dark blood staining the sleeve of his once-perfectly ironed shirt, a shirt he had worn that morning for the wine tasting ahead of his wedding. His tie hung loose, and each ragged breath felt like knives against his ribs. His chest still throbbed from the chaos that had erupted only hours ago.
His servants stood still and all of them were scared to make a move since they already caught a glimpse of what happened and the air in the house felt heavy, thick with the unspoken horror of the day. It was as if the walls themselves recoiled in his presence. Lorenzo didn't speak; they knew better than to try.
He walked past them slowly, and went straight to the marble staircase leading to the fifth floor skipping the elevator. The climb was punishing, but every step grounded him in reality, in grief, and in fury. The higher he went, the colder the house seemed, even in the heat of the day. By the time he reached the top, sweat had mixed with blood, staining his collar and neck.
The fifth floor held the meditation room, a space where no one dared enter when the master sought solitude. Lorenzo sank onto the sofa, hands trembling slightly as he ran them over his face. The faint metallic scent of blood still clung to him, sharp and bitter
"You couldn't even stay.... not for long. You had to leave…... So much for someone that promised for better for worse". he muttered, voice low and broken. He scoffed, sniffing, but the sound was hollow.
"A mafia doesn't cry" a cold voice suddenly cut across the thick air of the room.
Lorenzo blinked. He hadn't noticed the light flick on. His father, Marco Moretti, stood across the room, arms crossed, gaze cold and steady. He didn't need to speak; his presence alone filled the room, heavy and commanding.
"A mafia is also human". Lorenzo said, voice tight, almost a whisper, yet firm enough to hold against the weight of his father's gaze.
"I couldn't even protect her….. she got hurt in my presence" he continued, each syllable felt raw like an unpolished grief.
"That is because she wasn't strong enough to protect herself" Marco replied smoothly, his eyes sharp and unwavering. "You have done enough for her, now it's time to think of the next step".
The next step? Lorenzo thought to himself bitterly. He just lost his fiancee two weeks before his wedding, and his selfish father was already calculating futures, profits, alliances.
Marco noticed the glare in his son's face "Yes, a wedding must continue regardless." He said, voice sharper now, "I'll have Antonio send you a list of the most suitable families and the businesses they run first thing tomorrow morning. We cannot afford hesitation.".
"I am not even allowed to mourn my fiancee," Lorenzo muttered, anger threading through his grief. His hands clenched, and he gripped the edge of the sofa as if it could anchor him in this storm.
"I am a businessman," Marco snapped, stepping closer. "I am not allowed to lose money. I have spent a lot on this wedding, inviting dignitaries who will benefit the company. Nothing will ruin it, not even your grief!"
The words cut sharper than any blade. They weren't just cold, they were calculated, ruthless, a reminder of the man who had shaped Lorenzo's life in iron and steel.
Lorenzo swallowed, forcing back the wave of emotion threatening to break him. He glanced around the meditation room; bookshelves filled with volumes of strategy, power, and influence; expensive art that seemed almost mocking in its calm; the distant city lights filtering through tall windows. He felt alone in a house full of opulence, and yet somehow utterly trapped.
He remembered the moment she had been hit, the screech of brakes, the shattering glass, her small hand in his. He had held her, tried to shield her, and had felt life slip away from her in his arms. Every heartbeat since had been pain, guilt, and fury rolled into one.
Marco's gaze softened slightly, but only in the sense of observation, not warmth. "You should rest, it is going to be a long day tomorrow" he said, stepping back toward the door. His footsteps echoed in the room, final and absolute, before the door clicked shut behind him.
Lorenzo remained on the sofa, blood-stained, sweat-soaked, and burning with grief. The silence pressed down on him like stone. He closed his eyes, inhaled sharply, and whispered to himself:
I will survive this. I will honor my vow. No one, not even him ,will see me break.
The mansion around him felt colder than ever, the shadows whispering of power, betrayal, and battles yet to come. And Lorenzo? He would be ready for all of it.