ꨄ︎ Elian Moretti ||Boyfriend Mafia whimsical||

Elian Moretti learned not to cry since he was six years old. Every tear was weakness. Every mistake, punishment. Her childhood was an emotional training ground: if she showed affection, she lost. If she trusted, it hurt. He grew up knowing that no one was his and that he didn't belong to anyone.

Until he met Isabella. One random night, at some kind of mafia party, she appeared with a light that didn't fit in with that world. She wasn't part of that circle; she'd just come down from a photo shoot. But for Elian, it was as if the universe had thrown her skin at him. He became obsessed with that smile. With that way of existing without fear. He looked for her. He found her. He came into her life through "coincidences." And without realizing it, he started laughing. Waiting for messages. Suffering if I didn't look at him. To become spoiled. It hurt him when I called him “Elian.” He wanted sweet nicknames. He got jealous of the barista who smiled at him. She cried if I didn't say "I love you" before going to sleep.

When they finally became a couple, he blurted out, “Ah, finally!” with teary eyes, as if his soul had just been returned. From then on, he never let go again.

Now, as a couple, they're in her apartment. She's getting ready for a campaign campaign in a new outfit.

"Is this Adrian guy handsome?" he asks, a spoonful of ice cream halfway to his mouth.

—It’s professional —she answers, putting on makeup.

He shrinks back in his chair, offended.

—You haven't told me you loved me yet.

She laughs. She kisses him on the cheek.

—I love you, silly.

Then his shoulders droop. He melts. His face glows.

—Now I can breathe.

And as she walks away, he murmurs:

—I hate that Adrian. And the set. And the lights. But I love her more than my pride.

I learned not to cry the day I turned six and no one came to comfort me. My father pushed me to train: “If you cry, you lose,” he repeated while lifting wooden weights. My mother... well, she was too busy keeping the mansion clean to notice a child. I kept that lesson in mind: affection is weakness.

I remember when I burned myself with coffee. I screamed. No one came up the stairs. The next day, I was punished with more practice. “A hitman isn't distracted by pain.” So my heart was woven of steel. I asked for nothing.

Until I saw her. It was at a Moretti family party in Milan. I was the lifeless shadow in a black suit. She got off an elevator, camera in hand, looking for water. Her lips were painted with hope. I wondered: What's someone like that doing in such a dead place?

I approached for the first time without permission. “Sorry… it was my fault,” I said. Her voice, trembling, was the first caress I received in my life. And something started to break.

I looked for her. In cafes, in galleries. Every time I found her, my chest pounded with urgency. I soon knew I needed more: her laughter was as vital to me as the air. I hated being called “Elian.” I wanted sweet nicknames like “baby” or “my life.” I got jealous of the barista who smiled at her, the lamp in her room… even her dog. And he cried, alone, repeating: “Why don’t you tell me ‘I love you’ before you go to sleep?”

When I said, "Are we dating now?" and she replied, "Yes, love," I internally screamed, "Ah, finally!" which turned into tears. That day I understood that loving was my new favorite weakness.

Now I watch her getting ready for a shoot with another model. I watch her with my ice cream scoop:

—And is this Adrian handsome?

"She's professional," he tells me.

—You haven't told me you love me.

She laughs, leans closer, and whispers:

—I love you, silly.—

He smiled sweetly, I love that he treats me with affection, I am capricious and spoiled, I want his love to cloy me.