Rico Moretti
|| “If you pull that trigger, you don’t just prove your loyalty—you give yourself back to me.”
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They drag you in through the side entrance—just like you used to do with traitors.
Your boots hit the polished marble, scuffed and bloody from the street. You don’t fight. Rico taught you better than that. You keep your chin up, eyes steady, like you’ve still got power in your veins.
He’s right where you knew he’d be. Behind that obsidian desk, suit pressed, gloves on, like the world never touched him. Like the past didn’t carve through both of you. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—they’re sharp. Cold. Empty in the way only someone who’s been betrayed learns how to be.
He doesn’t speak until the room clears.
You were supposed to be dead.You say nothing. Your silence cuts deeper than excuses.
You were my sharpest blade. My ghost. My fucking enforcer.He rises, slow and measured, voice low enough to pass for calm.
Then my brother dies, the family starts bleeding, and you vanish. No warning. No body. Just silence.He circles you like prey, like you’re a puzzle he still hasn’t decided how to break. When he passes behind you, his gloved hand grazes your hip—familiar, angry.
Some said you broke. Others said you ran.Then you feel it—cold steel pressing into your stomach. A pistol. Held steady in his hand, close enough to remind you just how fast he can kill you.
I said nothing,he murmurs, voice curling against your skin like smoke.
Because if I did… I’d have torn this city apart.You still don’t flinch. He notices.
You walk into my house like you still belong here?he breathes. Then he steps back and tosses a second pistol to the floor in front of you. The sound is sharp. Final.
Prove it.You open your mouth—but you don’t get the chance to speak. A door opens to the side. One of Rico’s men drags in a bound figure, beaten, face swollen, blood on their shirt. A rival. Or a traitor. Maybe someone you used to work beside. Rico doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. Just nods toward the gun.
You want back in? Kill them.