The empire of Darkness

Gabriel Moretti

Burnt leather, the smell of blood, black smoke rising into the night.

It hurts. A dull pain twists my shoulder, hot and sticky. I don't have to look down to know: the bullet has gone in. Too clean to be a simple settling of scores, too precise to be a warning. Someone wanted to kill me.

I place a hand against the wound and straighten up against the gutted carcass of my car. The metal is still warm, deformed by the impact of the explosion. It all happened too fast. One minute we were driving through the night, Matteo at the wheel, three of my men as backup. The next, a spray of fire, detonation, the screech of tires tearing the asphalt. An ambush. Millimetre. They were waiting.

My breath is short. My trembling fingers slide over the leather of my jacket, sticky with blood. I feel the warm liquid slowly trickling down my arm, seeping under the fabric. I grit my teeth. Not now. Not here.

Matteo crawls towards me, his gun pressed to his chest. His face is tense, a trail of blood across his temple.

- We've got to move, capo.

His voice is low, but I sense the urgency beneath the feigned calm. My men are scattered around us, some inert, others groaning in the darkness. I don't need to count. I already know that many won't get up again.

I nod, try to sit up, but a jolt of pain explodes in my shoulder. I grunt, clench my jaw. Every movement is torture, every breath an effort.

- The car?

Matteo glanced at the smoking carcass.

- Busted.

Of course it is. My gaze sweeps the dark alleys around us. I don't have the luxury of waiting for reinforcements. If my enemies have had the audacity to attack here, it's because they know what they're doing. This isn't a warning, it's a botched execution.

- Hospital?" asks Matteo.

- Out of the question.

No doctors. No records. No evidence. If I set foot in a hospital, it will take an army to get me out alive. I have to disappear before this attack becomes an official declaration of war.

But I need a doctor. And I have an option. One I don't like.

Matteo stares at me, waiting for a decision.

- I have someone.

His eyebrows furrow.

- Confidence?

I don't answer immediately. Trust? No. But she's the only one who can patch me up, no questions asked.

I spit out a trickle of blood, inhale slowly. My voice is hoarse, sharp.

- Take me to Alba Ricci.

Alba Ricci

The silence of the night is a lie.

In the darkness of my apartment, I put my ear to the ground. I've learned to listen beyond the apparent calm. An engine slowing down too close to my building. Footsteps stopping in front of my door. Breath held behind a wall. The warning signs of danger are often imperceptible. Until it's too late.

I close my hand over the scalpel handle on the table. I never really sleep, not deeply, not since I ran away from what was supposed to be my life. Fear is a habit, an old friend.

Then, three sharp knocks against my door.

Not just a visitor. Someone who knows where to find me.

I stand still, the blade cold between my fingers.

- Alba. Open the door.

The voice is husky and low, but instantly recognizable. Gabriel Moretti.

My heart misses a beat. He shouldn't be here. He's never been to my house. He never comes in person. When one of his men is wounded, he sends someone else. Yet here he is, behind this door, and that can only mean one thing: he's in bad shape.

I put down the blade and unlock the door.

The first thing I see is blood.

His black shirt is sticky, stuck to his torso, a dark liquid spreading from the fabric to his skin. His right arm hangs slightly, stiff, unusable. He's been shot. His eyes, as cold as steel, lock with mine. He's pale, but he's standing. I should be relieved he hasn't fainted. But I'm not.

Gabriel crossed the threshold with a heavy step.

- Close the door.

I close behind him, cross my arms.

- Who did this to you?

His expression doesn't change.

- Does it matter?

I sigh. He won't tell me anything. I don't ask questions, that's our unspoken agreement.

I guide him to the examination table I use for my clandestine patients. He drops onto it, one hand clutching his injured shoulder.

- Take off your shirt.

A fleeting smile twists his lips, a glint of defiance in his eyes.

- If you wanted to see me shirtless, all you had to do was ask.

- If I wanted to see you shirtless, I wouldn't choose a night when you're pissing blood on my floor.

His smile fades, replaced by a rictus of pain as he slowly undoes the buttons on his shirt. He doesn't grimace, but I can see the tension in his jaw, the way he holds his breath. He's used to pain.

When he pulls aside the cloth, the wound is revealed. A clean wound, a clean entrance. The bullet is still lodged in his flesh. I frown.

- You were lucky. It passed right by an artery.

- I'm always lucky.

I look up at him.

- That's not what your condition tells me.

He doesn't answer. His gaze catches me, daring me to dig deeper. I grab a pair of gloves and get my gear ready. He can't stay here too long.

- Do you want an anaesthetic?

Gabriel sneers.

- Make it quick.

Alba

Of course he is. Monsieur is too proud to admit he's in pain. I pick up a pair of pliers and approach the wound. He grits his teeth when I touch the skin, but doesn't move. Slowly, methodically, I probe the wound. The bullet is deep. My gaze returns to his face. His forehead is beaded with sweat, but he doesn't look away.

- You can still back out, Moretti.

- And drag me to a hospital to be finished off? No, I'm fine.

I sigh and purse my lips. He won't make it easy for me.

With a precise movement, I slide the clamp and hook the projectile. Gabriel tenses, his muscles contracting under my hand. He breathes slowly, deeply, controlling the pain. I pull. A shudder runs through him, a hoarse sound escapes from his throat, but he doesn't scream.

The ball falls into the metal tray with a dull clink.

I take compresses, clean the blood. My mind screams at me not to linger on his skin burning under my fingers. He's just a patient. Just another patient.

- You're going to be fine," I said, starting to suture.

- I know.

Of course he knows. He can't even conceive of another option.

Silence settles in, disturbed only by the sound of the thread I'm pulling through her skin. His gaze is fixed on me, intense, heavy. I refuse to look up.

- Why me?" I finally ask.

- Because you're the only one I trust.

I stop for a moment, my heart missing a beat. This is a lie. I know it's a lie. Gabriel Moretti doesn't trust anyone.

And yet here it is.

Wounded, vulnerable. In my space.

Maybe the lie isn't for me. Maybe it's for himself.

Gabriel Moretti

The pain pulses in my shoulder, a dull throbbing that hammers my skin with every movement. But that's not what holds my attention.

She's the one.

Alba.

Her fingers are precise, fast, as efficient as they were when she operated in the aseptic wards of hospitals. Except that here, there are no assistants, no monitors, no protocol. Just her and me, in the subdued glow of her apartment, the cold metal of her instruments and the warmth of her hands against my skin.

I watch her work. Her forehead is wrinkled with concentration, her lips pursed. She does her best to ignore me, to stay focused on her role as underground doctor, but I see the shadows in her eyes. Annoyance. Concern.

- It's not the first time you've been shot, is it?

I smile. A lazy, calculated smile, just enough to exasperate her.

- Too many balls to count.

- And still alive.

She pulls on the suture with a little more force than necessary. I don't flinch.

- It seems to me that death hasn't yet decided what it wants to do with you, Moretti.

- Have you decided what you want to do with me?

This time, she stops. Her eyes meet mine.

- Patch you up and kick you out.

I chuckle.

- Adorable.

She doesn't answer and goes back to work, but I can see the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers twitch for a split second before regaining their surgical precision. Alba Ricci is an enigma. A mystery I have yet to solve.

I looked for her for a long time. Even before she knew who I was, I already knew her name. She was the heiress to an empire, the daughter of Don Ricci, a strategic pawn in a game of power she refused to play. And now here she is, facing me, stitching me up as if I were just another patient.

- It's all over now.

Her voice cuts through the silence. She cuts the wire, puts away her instruments and steps aside, as if she wanted to put as much distance as possible between us.

- You'll be sore for a few days. Avoid sudden movements.

I nod, but don't move.

She crosses her arms.

- What?

- I missed you, Ricci.

She raises her eyes to the sky, but I don't miss the slight trembling of her fingers.

- Get out of my house, Moretti.

I stand up slowly, testing my arm. The pain is still there, but bearable. I retrieve my torn shirt and slip it on without hurrying. His eyes follow me, wary.

- Who tried to kill you?" she finally asks.

- You said you didn't want to know.

- I don't want to know if it's life-threatening.

I smile.

- You're already in danger, Alba. Since the day you decided not to be your father's daughter.

She freezes. Her fingers tighten on the edge of the table.

- Get out.

I'm not moving.

- You know he's looking for you, right?

His eyes darken.

- I can handle it.

- No, you're not. You're running away. It's not the same.

His breath is short. Her mask of indifference wavers. For a moment, I think she's going to explode. But she doesn't. She grits her teeth, takes it in her stride, as she always has.

I move towards her, closing the distance between us. She doesn't back away, but I can feel her tension, her refusal to let me see what's going on behind her eyes.

- You have a choice to make, Alba.

She laughs, a bitter laugh.

- Is that so? And what would that choice be, Gabriel?

- Stop running.

She shakes her head, runs a hand through her hair, visibly exhausted.

- And do what? Walk into the lion's den? Work for you?

- It's an option.

She knew it would come. She knew it would come. That sooner or later, I'd make her this proposal. Not just because she's talented, not just because she can be useful to me. But because I don't want to lose her.

She stares at me for a long time. Then she whispers:

- I've already been locked in a cage, Moretti. I don't want another one.

She turns on her heels and disappears into the shadows of her apartment, leaving me alone with the bitter taste of her truth.

Alba Ricci

I close the door behind him.

My fingers remain clenched on the handle, knuckles whitened by tension. I close my eyes for a moment, inhale deeply. The air in my apartment is laden with a mixture of disinfectant and dried blood. The smell clings to my skin, my clothes, my thoughts.

Gabriel Moretti.

He came here, wounded, vulnerable, and yet he still managed to take control. Still him. Always the damn power he wields without even trying.

I slowly release the handle and turn away. My apartment is tiny, a refuge with no luxuries, no attachments. Just a bed, an examination table, a shelf overloaded with medical supplies stolen or bought on the black market. It's not a house. It's just a shelter.

But tonight, it became something else. An invisible battlefield, where words cut deeper than any blade.

I approach the sink, turn on the tap and let the water run over my trembling hands. The blood fades, but not the feel of her skin beneath my fingers.

I cling to the edge of the sink, staring at my reflection in the cracked mirror.

- Stop running.

Gabriel's words still echo in my mind.

He has no idea what it means.

I've never stopped running.

I can't do it.

I turn off the water with a jerk, grab a towel and press it against my face. My heart is beating too fast. The adrenalin won't go down. I've learned to stitch flesh, to heal wounds, to erase the traces of a night too violent. But I don't know how to extinguish the fire that still burns under my skin.

I should be asleep. But the idea of closing my eyes terrifies me more than I care to admit.

So I do what I always do: I get back to work.

I grab a bottle of alcohol and start cleaning the instruments I used on Gabriel. My gestures are mechanical, precise, an automatism learned from repeating the same movements over and over again.

I erase the evidence.

As if that would erase what just happened.

As if that would erase him.

But the truth is undeniable.

Gabriel Moretti found me.

And he won't let me disappear again.

Gabriel Moretti

The night is cold, the pain dull.

Sitting in the back of my car, I stare out the window at the lights of the city. The streets of Milan stretch out beneath me like a labyrinth of concrete and glass, illuminated by the neon lights of the bars and the flickering street lamps of the dark alleys.

- Where now, capo?

Matteo's voice breaks the silence. He sits in the front, hands firmly on the steering wheel. Faithful, efficient. He's been my shadow for years, and yet, tonight, I don't feel like answering.

I close my eyes for a moment, letting my head rest against the cold leather of the seat.

I can still feel the burn of Alba's fingers on my skin.

The look on her face when she stitched up my wound.

The tension between us was palpable, almost unbearable.

I open my eyes again.

- At home.

Matteo nods and drives off in silence.

The journey is quick. My men know how to avoid exposed roads, how to navigate this city of mine without attracting attention. When we reach my villa, the gates open immediately.

The house is a monster of glass and stone, perched high above Milan like a hawk ready to swoop down on its prey. A fortress. A symbol of power.

I get out of the car and climb the marble steps, my shoulder throbbing with every step.

Inside, the air is cool and still. Too still.

I cross the living room, walk around the large glass bar where several bottles of expensive whisky rest, and stop in front of the bay window.

The city stretches out at my feet.

But my mind is elsewhere.

I think back to Alba, her voice, her refusal to give in.

It's different.

Not just because she's Don Ricci's daughter. Not just because she's chosen to escape this fate.

She looks at me differently. As if I were not a king, not a monster, not untouchable.

She looks at me like a man.

A man she refuses to let take hold of her.

A smile grazes my lips.

I love a challenge.

And Alba Ricci has just become the most dangerous of them all.

Alba Ricci

Three o'clock in the morning.

I gave up sleeping.

I'm sitting on my bed, an old notebook open in front of me, my pen suspended over the blank page.

I've been keeping these notebooks for years. Thoughts on paper, fragments of me that no one will ever read.

But tonight, the words just won't come.

All I see is him.

Gabriel Moretti, sitting on my examination table, his gaze fixed on me.

Gabriel Moretti, wounded but still in control of himself, of the situation, of me.

I hate the effect it has on me.

I hate the way it has insinuated itself into my life, into my space, into my mind.

I abruptly close the notebook and stand up.

I have to move. Get out. Breathe.