The city never slept. Neither did he.
Lorenzo Moretti stood in his office above Manhattan, watching headlights bleed through the fogged glass of the skyline. Down below, the city roared. Up here, it knelt.
He didn't wear a crown. He didn't need to.
Everyone already knew who ruled New York.
From the docks to the courts, from the nightclubs to city hall — his name traveled in whispers. His reach was endless. His mercy, rare.
He had left Italy behind years ago, but Italy never left him.
His younger brother, Angelo, still ran the southern territories under his quiet command. The power flowed between continents like blood through a single heart.
People assumed he came to America to expand.
They were wrong.
He came to escape.
But escape meant survival — not peace.
And Lorenzo Moretti didn't believe in peace.
---
"Boss," Marco said, stepping into the room.
Lorenzo didn't turn. "Go ahead."
"Three are dead. The diplomat will fly out by nightfall. We cleaned the hotel. No trace left behind."
"Good." His voice was calm, unbothered.
Marco lingered. "Anything else?"
"The girl in Naples," Lorenzo said. "The one who leaked names?"
Marco nodded.
"I want her found. Alive."
---
He walked toward the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking down at the city that belonged to him but never earned his loyalty. New York moved fast — just the way he liked it. But even in a city that never slept, Lorenzo never rested.
He wasn't just feared. He was respected. Worshipped. And hated, by the fools stupid enough to challenge him.
Every cop had a price. Every judge had a secret.
And every enemy had a funeral date.
---