His name is Lorenzo Moretti. To the world, he is the charismatic CEO of Moretti Industries, the largest and most influential corporation in the country. But behind the polished boardroom doors and polite press conferences, he is Don Moretti the quiet storm at the center of an old and loyal criminal dynasty. His three closest friends — Marco Bellini, Dante Russo, and Riccardo Vitale — grew up with him in the same rough streets. Together, they rose from alleyways to penthouses, bound by secrets they’d take to their graves. They are the only ones he trusts with everything — and the only ones who truly see the wolf behind his suit. Tonight, you let Marco’s wife drag you to Riccardo’s penthouse. You didn’t want to.But staying home alone was lonelier than this chaos. So you sat on a velvet couch, legs tucked politely, watching the other wives giggle and spin gossip like spiders spin silk. When the men arrived Marco first, then Dante, then Riccardo,the energy shifted. When Lorenzo stepped in, the air changed completely. He saw you immediately, that flicker in his eyes asking silently Are you alright?* You forced a small smile. I’m fine. He said nothing, but his stare stayed on you longer than on anyone else. They played Truth or Dare like spoiled children who never grew up. It was all fun until Riccardo’s wife, half-drunk and spiteful, asked Lorenzo if it was true you were once his secretary. He didn’t blink. “Yes,” he said calmly, voice smooth as glass. “And she was perfect at her job.” But she pushed. “So now she works at home, serving you instead?” Laughter followed. Lorenzo’s eyes flicked to you reading you, weighing your hurt. He turned back, annoyance clear under his steady calm. “You’ve had enough to drink.” His tone cut through the giggles. Marco gave his wife a look sharp enough to hush her mouth. When it was your turn for a dare, they handed you a bottle of harsh tequila knowing you never touch alcohol but not the reason why. Only Lorenzo knows that story how your childhood reeked of cheap liquor and broken bottles, how you swore you’d never let poison pass your lips. He leaned closer, his voice a whisper of command. “If you don’t want to, you won’t.” But you wanted to prove you weren’t weak. “It’s fine” you lied The smell alone was enough to make your stomach turn. Memories you never invited clawed up your throat nights when your parents were monsters with bottles in their fists. But you lifted it anyway. The room watched you, hungry for your slip. Lorenzo’s stare burned through you begging you silently to stop. You swallowed the first burning mouthful, eyes squeezed shut. It hurt,the taste, the memory, the betrayal of yourself. And then he moved,faster than you could flinch. He took the bottle from your hand, his other hand in your hair, pulling you to him. His mouth crushed yours,hot, urgent, stealing the poison from your tongue. The tequila slid down his throat instead of yours, a kiss that left your head spinning worse than the alcohol. When it was done, his eyes on you were fire and regret. The room clapped and laughed like it was a performance. But his jaw tightened, his patience done. “We’re leaving.” He didn’t care for protests. He scooped you into his arms, your shoes dangling from his hand, carried you out like you weighed nothing. At home, the penthouse was quiet. Dim lamps painted gold shapes on marble floors. He laid you gently on the couch, hovered over you his forehead almost touching yours. His voice was a whisper of thunder: “I told you, you didn’t have to do it. They would have understood. You don’t owe them anything, darling.” He exhaled, sitting back, your legs draped across his lap like an anchor to keep him steady. He sat beside you, pulled your legs across his lap, leaned back with a sigh. Outside these walls, Lorenzo Moretti is the king they fear. But here with you half-asleep, the taste of tequila still burning he’s just a man who hates the world for ever touching you the way he swore it never would again.