The television flickered to life, harsh and sudden in the dim dining hall of the Moretti estate. A piercing, urgent voice cut through the soft clatter of silverware and the whispered movements of servants.
"Breaking news from Portovelo…" the reporter began, his tone tense, sensational, almost theatrical. The camera jerked with the handheld footage of a narrow alley beside a warehouse. Bodies sprawled across the ground, some twisted unnaturally, others slumped as if frozen mid-motion. Crates were overturned, glass shattered across the grimy floor, and the scent of smoke seemed to permeate the frame. Then the video cut sharply to another shot: a figure dragged through the streets, blindfolded, pale, trembling, hands tied behind his back. The figure's voice trembled as he pleaded, words barely audible over the city sounds, the fear radiating off him like heat.
The dining hall fell silent.
Clara felt her chest tighten as she leaned forward, knuckles pressing into her napkin. She did not speak—could not speak—but her breath quickened, each inhale a reminder that someone, somewhere, had orchestrated the violence captured on screen.
Antonio and Nick, seated side by side, exchanged subtle glances. Their rivalry, usually simmering beneath a veneer of camaraderie, flickered at the edges. Antonio's eyes narrowed, a combination of disbelief and intrigue threading his expression. "Who… would dare this in Portovelo?" he muttered, voice low, more to himself than anyone else. Nick's jaw tensed, the spark of competitive admiration rising in his high school arrogance. "This… this isn't just bold," he whispered back. "This is something else entirely."
Isabella's hand shot out, resting lightly on the table. Her eyes flicked sharply between the two, voice taut with frustration. "Do you even see what you're saying? This isn't a game! Not for discussion, not for admiration." Her words were measured but contained the sharp sting of a reprimand.
Lucia's small frame shifted in her chair, fingers brushing the table's edge. She felt the tension in the air like static. Fear was there, yes, but beneath it something else: the magnetic pull of power, the shadow of someone who could bend life and death with a calm voice. She did not understand fully, but her instincts flared. Danger. Authority. Control.
Across the table, Luca and Enzo remained statuesque. Smoke from their cigars curled upward, drifting lazily yet imposing in the room. Eyes unblinking, they cataloged each reaction, each flicker of tension. They had already seen every detail of what had occurred—Vito's gang had met a grisly end—but they spoke nothing, letting the room's fear swell and ripple under their silent presence.
Cathy leaned forward, a faint smile tracing her lips, her eyes sharp, calculating. She radiated a presence that was both alluring and terrifying, the type of villainess who thrived not on chaos alone, but on observing how it shaped others. "Perfect," she murmured, voice low but clear enough to reach Frank, "absolutely perfect in its precision… cold, deliberate."
Frank's expression tightened. "It's not perfection," he said slowly, almost to himself. "It's… murder. Blood. The consequences of arrogance and cruelty."
Klein, quietly observing from across, placed a hand on Frank's shoulder. "It's not about admiration," he whispered. "It's about understanding. Recognizing what it means to command fear, to enforce power without hesitation."
The reporter's voice rose again, carrying an almost cinematic weight. "Eyewitnesses confirm the Santoro gang has been eradicated. Brutal, precise, and executed with chilling efficiency. The figure at the center of this operation is believed to be Vincenzo Moretti, ruler of the infamous Moretti family. Dead-eyed, calculating, merciless—residents describe him as inhuman, almost… hellish."
Clara's heart jolted. She pressed her lips together, forcing herself to remain still. The words lingered, echoing in her mind. Vincenzo? Could it truly be him?
The camera then cut to the park, the handheld recording capturing the final act: the figure now kneeling, terror etched into every feature, raising his head to meet the gaze of a man who did not move a muscle, yet spoke with absolute authority: "Don't let this happen again, take him outside."
The dining hall went silent. No one spoke. Every gaze shifted toward the screen, the words burning into their consciousness.
Antonio's lips parted slightly, eyes wide. "He… he just… stood there?" The awe in his tone was mingled with a creeping fear. Nick's gaze hardened, admiration now threading through his competitive energy. "No one else could… pull that off."
Isabella's voice cut sharply, tension snapping: "Enough! Stop speaking like this, both of you! Do you understand the difference between awe and… this?"
Cathy's smile widened faintly, eyes not leaving the screen. "Cold. Efficient. Untouchable." Her voice carried a soft cruelty, the thrill of seeing someone embody fear and control without even raising a hand.
Frank's jaw tightened, conflicted. "You're not seeing the cost," he murmured, his voice low, almost drowned out by the tension. "The consequences. The blood. The… finality."
Klein's hand on his shoulder gave a slight squeeze. "Yes, but recognize this," he whispered, voice firm but calm. "Control. Authority. Everyone here reacts because they know it. That's power."
Luca and Enzo remained silent, unblinking, analyzing every pulse of fear and awe across the room. Their smoke circled them, a quiet halo around their stillness.
Mia, small and tense, pressed her hands together in her lap. She didn't understand everything, but the weight of the atmosphere, the chill, the quiet respect mixed with fear—it reached her like a wave she couldn't deflect.
The reporter leaned closer to the camera, voice rising with dramatic tension: "Vincenzo Moretti is not merely a criminal. He is a living symbol of control, of fear, of consequence. From poverty to the heights of Portovelo's underworld, his path has been marked by precision, by manipulation, by an almost inhuman ability to eliminate threats and command loyalty. Those who oppose him… vanish without trace."
The room remained silent. Eyes flicked between one another. Whispers died in mouths. Thoughts churned beneath calm exteriors.
Every member of the Moretti family felt the weight of a legend made flesh, a shadow of power that loomed over them even before he entered the room: the heir who had turned fear into an art form, the boy who had raised a family from obscurity to empire, the untouchable Vincenzo Moretti.