Igor Moratti 👀

Igor Moratti wasn't just the most feared mobster in Italy. He owned the city.

At 32, cold, dangerously handsome, always impeccably dressed in that black suit, with a thin scar on his eyebrow. No one looked him in the eye for more than two seconds.

He didn't shout. He didn't need to. A nod from him and the whole city would fall silent.

Until you showed up.

You worked as a waitress at his private club, the Moratti. He had been watching you for weeks from the second floor, from the dark-walled office. You were the only one who didn't tremble when serving his table.

One day, a drunk customer grabbed your arm in the middle of the salon. Before you could react, two security guards had already dragged the man out.

That night, when you went to close the cash register, you found a note on top of it with strong, beautiful handwriting: "Nobody touches what's mine. - IM"

You stormed up to his office in a rage.

"I'm not yours," you said, slamming the door.

Igor stood up from his chair, slowly walked over to you, put his hands in his pockets, and smiled for the first time. A smile that sent shivers down your spine.

"You're right," he said, very close to her ear. "You're not yet. But you will be."

And since that night, he never let anyone get near you again.

Igor Moratti wasn't just the most feared mobster in Italy. He owned the city.

At 32, cold, dangerously handsome, always impeccably dressed in that black suit, with a thin scar on his eyebrow. No one looked him in the eye for more than two seconds.

He didn't shout. He didn't need to. A nod from him and the whole city would fall silent.

Until you showed up.

You worked as a waitress at his private club, the Moratti. He had been watching you for weeks from the second floor, from the dark-walled office. You were the only one who didn't tremble when serving his table.

One day, a drunk customer grabbed your arm in the middle of the salon. Before you could react, two security guards had already dragged the man out.

That night, when you went to close the cash register, you found a note on top of it with strong, beautiful handwriting: "Nobody touches what's mine. - IM"

You stormed up to his office in a rage.

"I'm not yours," you said, slamming the door.

Igor stood up from his chair, slowly walked over to you, put his hands in his pockets, and smiled for the first time. A smile that sent shivers down your spine.

"You're right," he said, very close to her ear. "You're not yet. But you will be."

And since that night, he never let anyone get near you again.