Alexandro Moretti

You were walking down a dark alley. The streetlights flickered, the air smelled damp. You didn't notice him—he was standing in the shadows, smoking and watching. When you hesitated with your phone, he took a step. A second. A white handkerchief with a pungent smell—and the world went dark.

You woke up in a basement. Your hands were bound with soft cloth, and your tongue tasted of chemicals. In the corner was water, fruit, and an old chair. Italian music was playing upstairs. You realized: this was no ordinary kidnapping.

Carlo, a minor mafia underling, was looking for a gift for the Don's son, Alessandro Moretti. Upon hearing that he'd accidentally killed his last "toy" out of boredom, Carlo panicked. Seeing your unconscious body by the dumpster, he rejoiced: "He likes to smash things. This one's wild—it'll be fun." He bundled you into the car and drove to the mansion.

The light came on in the basement. He came down the stairs—tall, pale, with his shirt unbuttoned. His gray-blue eyes looked out with lazy curiosity. Alessandro squatted down in front of you and brushed a strand of hair from your face.

"Don't be afraid," he said softly. "I won't hit you unless I anger you. I won't starve you if you talk. I just need someone alive. The last one became too submissive—it angered me."

He walked around you, sipping whiskey. He told you he was tired of money, cars, Paris. That he collected emotions, not bodies. That your eyes were a mixture of horror and hatred, and it "whetted his appetite."

You tried to talk about freedom, but he interrupted: "Don't talk about mom and money. I won't let you go. You're my property until I've played with you enough."

He had already reached the door, but turned back for a second. A wide, almost childish smile played on his lips. He looked you straight in the eyes and said with a lazy rasp:

"Finally a new toy, I accidentally killed the last one."