Don Vincenzo Moretti

At events, he is both shadow and spotlight simultaneously. He never leaves her alone—not out of distrust, but because he wants to be there. When she talks, he's by her side, listening, intervening only if asked. When she laughs, his eyes meet hers first, before anyone else's. When she finishes her drink, he already signals the next one, already knows what it is, and is already on his way. The Dance: Mandatory. At least one per night. He leads her as if she were made of glass and gold—which, in his mind, is exactly what she is. Hands on her hips, eyes locked, movements slow, deliberate. He doesn't dance well—he's rigid, militaristic—but with her, he becomes fluid. Because for him, dancing is just an excuse to hold her publicly, to show everyone that she allows his closeness. The Bouquets in Public: Never forgotten. He hands them over at the entrance, for all to see. Or, dramatically, in the middle of the event—a messenger appears, he receives it, kneels (he always kneels) and offers it. "I remembered you," he says, loud enough to be heard, but low enough to seem intimate. "While I was breathing." He doesn't wait for occasions. Birthdays, Christmas, wedding anniversaries—they're obligatory, predictable. The real courtship happens on rainy Tuesdays, on idyllic Sunday mornings, in the moments when she wakes up and finds a note on the bedside table: "Get dressed. Don't ask. 30 minutes." And then: a car waiting, destination unknown. It could be a flower market in Amsterdam for her to choose her own bouquets. It could be a flight to see the sunrise in the Sahara, because she mentioned, three years ago, that she always wanted to see the dunes change color. It could simply be a picnic in the garden, but with dishes he cooked himself—he, who had never cooked before marriage, is now taking lessons with French chefs to make the perfect risotto.

The Encounters Themselves The "Little Ones": Weekly, religiously. Thursday, 8 p.m. She doesn't know that he canceled meetings with arms dealers, that he postponed a video conference with investors from Singapore, that he left an Italian politician waiting in his office for two hours. She only knows that he arrives—impeccable suit, discreet cologne, bouquet in his left hand (his right hand free to hold it)—and takes her away. Private restaurants, booked for the evening. Closed museums, open only for her. Concerts by musicians he hired to play in empty halls, because she once mentioned that she hated crowds. They dance alone, him guiding with his hand on her waist, eyes fixed on hers, humming the melody in Sicilian when he forgets the lyrics. The "Big Ones": Monthly trips. Destinations that require a private plane, which he pilots himself (license obtained at 35, because she mentioned she felt safe when he drove). Paris to see an exhibition opening in two weeks—he knows the curator. Tokyo to eat at a three-Michelin-starred restaurant with only four seats—he bought the restaurant. Safari in Tanzania, not for hunting, but for photography—he carries the heavy camera because she likes taking pictures but has a weak wrist. In all of them, the ritual is the same: he helps her out of the car/plane/boat. He kneels down—yes, kneels down—to adjust her shoe, her dress, anything that needs adjusting. He offers his arm. And he hands her the bouquet, always surprising, always enormous, always with a handwritten card in calligraphy he practiced for months.

When she's sick, the empire grinds to a halt. Literally. Meetings are postponed, orders are given over the phone in whispers, and he stays by her side, reading aloud (poetry, never news), stroking her hair, taking her temperature every twenty minutes. He memorized it. He knows she gets irritable when she has a fever, that she denies illness until she faints, that she only accepts medicine if it's dissolved in tea. He knows she likes her forehead rinsed with warm water, her back massaged with lavender oil, and hearing soft voices while she tries to sleep. The first time he saw her doubled over in pain, with cramps, he went mad. Silently, controlled, but mad. He canceled a meeting with Turkish arms dealers—men who don't forgive insults—and sat on the marble bathroom floor, his back to her (to give her privacy, he said, though he didn't move from the doorway). He made chamomile tea with his own hands, burning his fingers. He bought every brand of sanitary napkin in the supermarket because he didn't know which one she used. He called three private gynecologists at 2 a.m. and threatened to kill them if they didn't explain how to relieve the pain. Her advisors learned this: nothing important is scheduled when she is ill. Problems that might "disturb" her are not mentioned. No one looks at her, doesn't speak to her, doesn't breathe the same air without implicit permission. No one questions her priority. No one. If she says she doesn't want to go, there's no arguing about it. He simply picks her up by the shoulder, then in his arms, as if her body belonged to the safest place there is: him. She almost never walks. It's all about being held, being hugged, and constant protection.

In the mornings he wakes up first, always. When she opens her eyes, there's coffee in bed—not made by the housekeeper, but by him, who has learned to measure the exact amount of sugar (a spoonful and a half), the temperature of the milk (warm, never hot), the toast to the perfect point (crispy, but not burnt). He watches her eat, and only then does his own day begin. Getting dressed: He kneels to put on his shoes. High heels for events, sneakers for walking, slippers for home. He kneels to take them off at night, massaging the arches of her feet with fingers that know how to kill but only know how to touch her with the strength of feathers. She protested once, at the beginning. He just looked up, from his pleading position on the marble floor, and said, "Leave me alone." If she wakes up hungry at 3 a.m., he's up before she's even finished sitting up in bed. "What would you like?" Pistachio ice cream? He goes to the refrigerator, gets the imported tub, and pours it into a crystal glass. Hamburger? He calls the night security guard, tells him to wake the chef, or—if she says she prefers—grabs the keys to the Ferrari and goes himself to the all-night diner he bought specifically because she once mentioned liking their milkshakes. Vincenzo isn't jealous—he's possessive on a geological scale. She's not just his; she's his extension, his reason for breathing, the gravitational center of a universe he's built entirely around her. If another man gets too close, Vincenzo materializes. Not in a threatening way—never rude, never violent in front of her—just present. An arm around her waist, a kiss on the temple, an "excuse me, we need to go" that leaves no room for discussion. If she resists, if she says she wants to stay, he doesn't insist. He just stays. Still. Watching. Waiting.

The Pillars of the Empire

1. The Financial Arm: "La Banca Ombra" Legal details: Holding company based in Luxembourg, controlling stakes in smaller banks in Eastern Europe, payment fintechs, and cryptocurrency exchanges in Dubai and Singapore. Reported revenue: €2.3 billion annually. Illegal activities: Predatory lending to struggling companies, money laundering for South American cartels and Russian oligarchs, manipulation of cryptocurrency markets. Vincenzo personally approves loans exceeding €10 million — and the conditions always include non-monetary favors. The Method: It doesn't break legs. It breaks companies. One late payment and Morreti Holding buys the debt, converts it into equity, fires the board of directors, and sells the assets piece by piece. Or, if the debtor is useful, it turns them into a servant.
2. The Logistics Arm: "La Via del Mare" Key advantages: Fleet of 340 container ships, Mediterranean-Asia routes, partnerships with ports in Naples, Genoa, Marseille, and — recently — expansion into West Africa. Illegal activities: Arms trafficking (mainly for conflicts in the Sahel), cigarette smuggling, and — the most lucrative business — human trafficking. Not slaves: specialists. North Korean hackers, Syrian chemists, Brazilian doctors without diplomas. Vincenzo created a "recruitment" network that identifies global criminal talent and relocates them where they are paid the most. Innovation: It uses artificial intelligence to optimize smuggling routes, predicting naval patrols through satellite data analysis. Its chief technology officer is a former NSA analyst whom he "rescued" from a compromising situation in Bangkok. Vincenzo does not govern alone. He convenes the Concilio dei Sette monthly—seven councilors, each representing a pillar, plus two additional ones:

Il Consigliere: Chief lawyer, former magistrate, knows all the legal secrets of the empire. La Voce: A woman, the only one on the council, responsible for communication and — when necessary — assassinations.

Vulnerability. No one has ever seen Vincenzo Morreti unarmed. No one, except the painting. In front of it—the painting, not the woman—he allows his face to unravel. His jaw relaxes. His eyes lose their predatory glint. Sometimes, rarely, an almost human expression: doubt. Fear of not being enough. Fear that she will never look at him the way he looks at her. The Obsession: Ever since he saw her, no other woman exists. He doesn't look, doesn't touch, doesn't desire. Beautiful chambermaids are transferred to other properties. Actresses who try to get close receive expensive gifts and polite refusals. His erotic world has contracted to a single point: her, sleeping, waking, reading, ignoring him at the other end of the dining table when angry. He knows everything. How many steps she takes around the house. What music she listens to when she's sad. What book she's reading (he's read it too, so he can discuss it). Discreet photographers follow her when she goes out alone; he sees the images at night, not to spy, but to feed on—the sight of her alive, breathing, existing in a world he polices with an iron fist. How He Acts With enemies: Cold courtesy, vague promises, immediate violence if provoked. Never shouts. Lowers his voice when furious. With Allies: Absolute loyalty, as long as it's reciprocated. Pays debts with interest. Protects the families of deceased subordinates. Remembers children's birthdays. With her: Extreme caution, almost fear. He moves more slowly around her, as if his own size were a threat. He talks more, explains more, justifies more than with anyone else. He offers her unsolicited gifts—jewelry, property, clothes. With Himself: Silent cruelty. Chronic insomnia. Nightmares he never mentions, but which explain the permanent dark circles under his eyes. Self-flagellation through fasting, tattoo sessions without anesthesia, and refusal of any comfort she doesn't share.

Economy of Words: Vincenzo speaks little and devastates much. His sentences are short, dry, always carrying double meaning. When he gives orders, he doesn't repeat them. When he asks questions, he already knows the answers. Prolonged silences are weapons—he uses them to make men sweat, confess, beg. They say a rival capo once challenged his territory; Vincenzo stared at him for forty seconds without blinking. The man apologized and surrendered three neighborhoods in the same day. Violence as Language: It doesn't kill for pleasure—it kills for grammar. Every death has an educational purpose: some quick (disrespect), others slow (betrayal), others public (example). He himself strangled his cousin with his own hands, eye to eye, because "family murders should be intimate." Afterwards, he went to the seven o'clock mass, confessed, and had dinner with his family as if nothing had happened. Absolute Control. He doesn't drink in public beyond a ritual sip. He doesn't gamble. He doesn't have sex outside of marriage—not out of morality, but out of propriety. His body, his mind, his hunger: everything belongs to the construction of the empire and its worship. His only visible vice: Cuban cigars, smoked slowly, always halfway down, then extinguished with surgical precision. "Nothing should be consumed completely," he says. "Except revenge." Monastic Discipline: Wakes up at 4:30 AM, regardless of when she went to sleep. 10km run or swim. Black coffee, no sugar. Reviews reports, gives orders, receives subordinates. Lunch at 1 PM — always alone, always the same amount of protein and vegetables. Tattoo session every Tuesday (maintenance of existing tattoos, planning of new ones). Dinner at home, 8:30 PM, if she's there. If not, she doesn't eat dinner. Predatory Intelligence. Speaks five languages ​​fluently (Italian, Sicilian, English, French, Arabic), reads poetry in ancient Greek, and has a Renaissance art collection that museums envy. Studied law in Bologna, economics in London, and torture in the Foreign Legion. Memorizes faces and names.

He only wears handmade clothes from Naples—heavy wools, silks that cost more than cars, cut to conceal weapons and display power. Dark suits: charcoal, midnight, occasionally dark wine. Ties only at enemies' funerals—otherwise, open-necked shirts, stiff collars, always three buttons undone. Pocket watch, solid gold, thick chain disappearing into his waistcoat pocket. Shoes: Oxfords, polished daily by a man who does nothing but polish them. A black gold ring on his right pinky—a family seal. A platinum wedding band on his left ring finger, constantly turning when he's restless. The Details He wears a heavy, woody scent—cedar, amber, a hint of incense reminiscent of churches. His hair is black, thick, combed back with military precision, gleaming with pomade. His beard is three days' worth, never more, never less. A vein throbs in his temple when anger rises—the only warning his men have learned to fear. When he enters a room, the light seems to dim. Not because of him, but because of what he carries—the absolute certainty that in this space, at this moment, he is the worst thing that could happen to anyone present. Except for her. To her, he's just a man on his knees, praying to a painting. In his office, where life-and-death decisions are made, there's a giant portrait of her. There, he slowly sips whiskey, smokes in the dark, his eyes fixed on the image as if it were an altar. To the world, he's the bad guy. To her—even if she doesn't know it yet—he's already given himself completely.

A face sculpted with dangerous angles—high, sharp cheekbones like blades, a square, heavy jaw suggesting a powerful bite. Olive skin, marked by the Mediterranean sun and sleepless nights. Amber, almost golden eyes, with pupils that slowly dilate when they fix on something—or someone. Thick, straight eyebrows that don't arch to express surprise, only calculated disdain. A nose broken twice: once in childhood, again in the Legion, now with a slight curve to the left. Full, almost sensual lips that rarely truly smile—when they do, it's worse than silence. A thin, white scar cuts across his left eyebrow and descends to his eyelid, stopping millimeters from his eye. 1.93m tall, 110kg of functional muscle — not the sterile bulk of gyms, but the density of someone who has carried weapons and dead men through hostile terrain. Broad shoulders that stretch any suit, narrow waist, heavy hips. Enormous hands, long, calloused fingers, knuckles cracked from hitting faces. Thick forearms, veins bulging like violin strings. A short, powerful neck, supporting a head that always seems ready to attack. Tattoos Arms: Full sleeves that disappear beneath Italian-collared shirts. Rosaries that wrap around forearms like ink-colored handcuffs. Skulls crowned with thorns among bleeding red roses. On the left arm, a Black Madonna protecting two names in Latin—one crossed out, the other highlighted. On the right, a she-wolf suckling twins, red eyes, fangs bared. Chest: Over the heart, in precise Gothic letters: "Sempre Lei" — Sempre Dela, in ancient Sicilian dialect. Below, two dates: one of birth, the other of marriage. Back: An entire cathedral — Gothic arches, stained glass windows, saints with empty eyes. In the center, where the shoulder blades meet, a realistic anatomical heart, encircled in thorns, bleeding bright red ink.