In the underworld of New York City, boys were not raised.
They were forged.
And Luca Alessandro Moretti had been forged in blood.
LUCA MORETTI
The Don Who Never Smiles
Luca was born in a private hospital overlooking Manhattan, the first son of Vittorio Moretti — a feared mafia boss whose name once echoed from Brooklyn docks to European ports.
His childhood was not soft.
At seven, he watched his father break a man's hand for skimming money.
At ten, he learned how to shoot.
At fourteen, he understood betrayal.
At sixteen, he buried his mother.
His mother — Sofia Moretti — had been elegance wrapped in silk. Gentle. Refined. The only warmth inside the Moretti mansion.
She died in what the newspapers called a "car accident."
Luca called it what it was.
A warning.
From that day forward, something inside him went cold.
His Rise
When his father was assassinated during a private dinner, Luca was twenty-three.
Young.
Underrated.
Hungry.
The older capos thought they could control him.
They were wrong.
Within eighteen months:
Two traitors disappeared.
One rival family surrendered.
The Moretti empire expanded into international shipping, luxury real estate, private security firms, and high-level financial investments.
He modernized the business.
Clean money layered over dirty foundations.
Untouchable.
Silent.
Precise.
By thirty-two, Luca Moretti wasn't just a mafia don.
He was infrastructure.
His Body — The Weapon He Wore.
Luca stood at 6'3.
Broad shoulders that filled every doorway before he stepped through it.
His build wasn't bulky — it was disciplined. Controlled strength. Years of private combat training and early-morning workouts sculpted him into something dangerous and refined.
His suits were custom — charcoal, midnight, obsidian black — cut to trace the width of his chest and taper at his waist.
His hands were large. Veined. Scarred across the knuckles.
Proof he handled problems himself.
Dark hair, always styled back, sharp jawline, olive-toned skin, and eyes so deep brown they almost looked black under low light.
But it was his presence that did the damage.
He didn't raise his voice.
He didn't rush.
He didn't repeat himself.
When Luca Moretti entered a room, men adjusted their posture.
Women lost their breath.
And he felt nothing.
His Hate
Luca hated three things:
Betrayal.
Weakness.
Emotional dependency.
Love, to him, was leverage.
He had dated before — models, heiresses, socialites who liked the thrill of danger.
But he never let them stay long enough to matter.
One woman once told him, "You don't love. You possess."
He ended it that night.
Because she was right.
And he refused to give anyone the power to destroy him the way his mother's death had.
ISABELLA ROMANO
The Girl Who Didn't Belong in His World
Isabella Romano was born in a small apartment in Queens, far from penthouses and private security.
Her father was a mechanic.
Her mother, a nurse.
No crime. No power. No legacy of blood.
Just survival.
She grew up learning two things:
Work hard.
And never depend on anyone.
At twenty-five, she worked as an event coordinator and part-time art consultant for upscale charity galas across New York City.
She loved art.
She loved detail.
She loved beauty in quiet forms.
She had no idea she was about to step into a world where beauty was currency and danger wore tailored suits.
Her Body — Soft Power
Isabella wasn't delicate.
She was feminine in a way that commanded attention without asking for it.
5'7 with long legs and natural curves that made dresses cling like they were designed for her alone.
Her waist tapered gently, hips full but elegant, shoulders smooth, posture confident.
Her skin carried a warm caramel glow, flawless without effort.
Her hair — thick, dark brown with soft waves — often fell past her shoulders, catching light like silk.
Her lips were naturally full, expressive.
Her eyes — large, hazel with flecks of gold — held intelligence before innocence.
She didn't move timidly.
She moved intentionally.
And when she looked at someone, she actually saw them.
That would be her most dangerous trait.
Her Past Relationships
Isabella had loved once.
A safe love.
A predictable one.
A man who talked about future plans but never took risks.
It ended quietly.
Because Isabella wanted passion.
Intensity.
A man who made her feel something deeper than comfort.
She didn't know she was about to get exactly that.
Just not in the way she imagined.
The Collision
The night she met Luca Moretti at that penthouse gala in New York City…
She was wearing a fitted emerald green dress that traced her figure without revealing too much.
Classy.
Confident.
Her heels clicked softly against marble floors.
And when the gunshot echoed—
She turned.
She saw.
And instead of bowing her head like everyone else…
She held his gaze.
That was the moment Luca noticed her.
Not because she was the most beautiful woman in the room.
But because she was the only one who didn't look away.
And for the first time in years—
Something inside the Ghost stirred.
Not love.
Not yet.
But curiosity.
And curiosity…
Was how empires fell.