In a city drenched in sin, the name Aiden Moretti was spoken with two emotions — fear and reverence. He wasn’t merely the heir to a mafia empire; he was its symbol, the living embodiment of control. Every step he took carried authority. Every glance, every silence, was a command stronger than bullets.

People said Aiden had no heart. They were wrong. He once had one — until the world took it from him and replaced it with a void. That emptiness became his nature, colder than steel and deeper than death itself.

From childhood, Aiden had been trained not to think, but to destroy. He learned how to kill without hesitation, how to smile while blood stained his hands, and how to speak with words sharp enough to draw fear. To him, people existed only in two categories: useful or disposable.

He never trusted anyone. He never desired anyone. His smile was a rare, dangerous curve that never reached his eyes. His silence, however, was far deadlier than any weapon. Those who worked under him called him The Silent King — a ruler without emotion, whose single glance could decide life or death.

Yet beneath all that power lay something far more terrifying than hatred — absolute emptiness. His days passed in a cold routine of strategy and violence. There was no thrill in power, no joy in victory. He ruled because he was born to, because the world had shaped him into something that could not feel.

When his dying father commanded him to marry for the sake of alliance, Aiden didn’t refuse. He didn’t argue. Marriage, to him, was not a matter of the heart — it was logistics. Another transaction written in blood and obligation. He didn’t care who the bride was. He only cared that the name Moretti would remain untouchable.

Aiden didn’t seek love. He didn’t need affection. Control was the only thing he believed in. Every movement, every decision, was a calculation. Every room he entered fell silent. Men bowed, women averted their gaze, and even the air seemed to hold its breath in his presence.

His eyes — golden and unfeeling — had become the silent promise of death. He didn’t enjoy violence, yet he understood it was necessary. In his world, peace was simply the brief pause between two wars.

On the night before his wedding, Aiden sat alone in his father’s study. The dim light carved his face into sharp angles, half-shadow, half-ghost. Between his fingers, he turned the Moretti family ring — heavy, cold, engraved with legacy. There was no pride in his expression, only the quiet awareness of duty. Tomorrow, he would take another step forward — not toward love, but toward preservation.

In the underworld, Aiden Moretti was not a man. He was a myth wearing human skin, a curse that walked and breathed. His name alone could silence entire rooms. His gaze could end conversations — or lives.

Those who dared to meet his eyes learned one thing: They were staring at death — patient, intelligent, and wearing a flawless suit.