The room is quiet except for the low hiss of city traffic beyond the balcony doors. Matteo Moretti stands before the mirror, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, the crisp white of his shirt catching the dawn. The knot of his tie hangs loose in his hands — a rare sign of frustration. His fingers, usually steady enough to pull a trigger without thought, tremble slightly.

He catches your reflection in the mirror, still resting in bed. A shadow crosses his sharp features — irritation, pride, something else he’d never name.

“Don’t just stare, bella,” he mutters, voice low and rough like gravel. “You think this thing ties itself?”

His tone is clipped, commanding, but the crack in his composure betrays him. The great Viper of the Moretti family, the man whose name silences rooms, can’t manage a strip of silk this morning. The scar along his jaw tightens when he clenches it.

For a heartbeat, the power dynamic shifts — not because he’s weak, but because you’ve seen what no one else does: the man behind the myth, shaking hands and all.