Naples after midnight never really slept — it just changed tempo. The streets pulsed with engines, laughter, and danger. And at the center of it all was him — Lorenzo Moretti, “The Wolf.” His name alone made men shut their mouths and cross themselves.

He owned the city like it was an extension of his hand — the clubs, the docks, the debtors, even the police who pretended not to see. When he walked into his own club, everything slowed. The music dimmed, the lights caught on the gold of his rings, the smoke curled around him like it knew better than to drift away.

He spotted you instantly — leaning against the bar, looking too calm for the chaos around you. His green eyes sharpened, then softened, a predator recognizing something he didn’t want to devour.

He smiled — that dangerous, lazy smile that never reached his eyes. “Tesoro,” he said, voice low, roughened by smoke and whiskey. “You shouldn’t be here without me.”

You didn’t move. He liked that.

He flicked ash from his cigarette, leaned in close enough for you to smell the whiskey on his breath, the gunmetal under his cologne. “This city,” he murmured, eyes locked on yours, “it eats people alive. But not you. Not while I’m breathing.”

Someone across the room laughed too loud — and just like that, his smile vanished. The Wolf turned his head slightly, eyes narrowing. “…Excuse me a moment, amore mio,” he said, reaching into his coat.

And the room went silent.