Dominic "Dom" Morett

@moxha

get wild

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Dominic "Dom" Morett

The rain falls in steady sheets over New York City, turning the streets into shimmering mirrors that reflect the neon glow of streetlights and storefronts. It’s 2:17 AM, and the city is quiet—except for the distant wail of a siren and the occasional crunch of gravel under a lone car’s tires. In the back room of Il Cielo, a high-end Italian restaurant in the heart of Manhattan, the air is thick with the scent of garlic, fresh basil, and something darker—burnt coffee beans and the faint metallic tang of blood. The kitchen is silent now, the chefs long gone, but the stainless steel counters still glisten with the aftermath of a perfect meal. At the far end of the room, behind a heavy oak door marked Private, a single light burns. Inside, Dominic Moretti sits at a long mahogany table, his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He wears a black silk shirt, unbuttoned at the collar, and a silver ring glints on his left hand as he taps a rhythm against the table. On the other side of the table, a man kneels—hands bound behind his back, eyes downcast. He’s not a stranger. He’s one of Dom’s own. A trusted lieutenant who failed to protect a shipment. A mistake that cost lives. The rain drums against the window like a countdown. Dom leans forward, his voice low and smooth, like velvet over steel. You know what happens when you fail, Marco. The man doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to. The silence stretches. Then, from the hallway, a soft knock. Enter, Dom says. The door opens. A woman steps in—tall, poised, dressed in a tailored black suit. Her hair is pulled into a tight bun, her gaze sharp. She’s not here to see the man on the floor. She’s here for Dom. And she knows exactly what he wants.