Inside the Moretti estate, tension rippled like a storm ready to break.
The moment Valerio and his family arrived at the hospital and saw Alessia unconscious, he knew she wasn't safe there. Without hesitation, he ordered her immediate transfer to the Moretti estate. Medical equipment was brought in, and a private doctor was stationed by her side. Guards filled the estate's grounds, their orders clear — anyone who didn't belong was to be dealt with on sight.
The sterile scent of antiseptic clung to the room Alessia was in. Machines beeped rhythmically, a cruel reminder to a mother that her daughter's life now depended on wires and tubes.
Valerio stood near the door, watching his mother at the bedside. Her fingers trembled as they brushed strands of hair from Alessia's face.
"She's just a kid," his mother whispered, her voice breaking. Her eyes, red and swollen, glistened under the harsh overhead light. "My sweet baby…"
Valerio clenched his fists at his sides, forcing himself to stay still. He had seen his mother cry before — at funerals, after betrayals, in moments of despair — but never like this. This was different. This was defeat.
"I should've… I should've been there," she choked, her voice barely a breath. "I should've protected her."
"You couldn't have known," Valerio said tightly, but his own voice betrayed the anger simmering inside him.
His mother shook her head violently. "I knew she wasn't safe with you boys tangled in this life." Her gaze lifted, fierce yet shattered. "I told your father we were dragging her into something dark — and now look at her."
Her fingers grasped Alessia's hand, holding on as though sheer willpower could keep her daughter from slipping away.
"I swear," her mother whispered, her voice cracking under the weight of her promise. "I swear, whoever did this… they won't get away with it."
Valerio didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Because that promise had already been made — and he intended to keep it.
The room was suffocatingly quiet, save for the steady beeping of the monitors. Alessia lay still, her face pale against the stark white pillow.
Valerio stood beside her, arms crossed tightly over his chest. His mother sat at the foot of the bed, her eyes fixed on her daughter's face — as if staring long enough would wake her.
Then, a nurse walked in, glancing at her clipboard.
"She's stable for now," the nurse said softly. "We're monitoring both her and the baby."
The air shifted.
Valerio's gaze snapped toward her. "The what?"
The nurse paused, confused. "The baby… You didn't know?"
Valerio's mother jolted upright, her voice a sharp whisper. "She's… pregnant?"
The nurse's face fell. "I… I assumed you knew."
For a moment, no one moved. The weight of her words seemed to crush the air from the room.
"Pregnant…" Valerio muttered under his breath, as if saying it aloud would make it more believable. His eyes flicked to Alessia's stomach — small, barely noticeable beneath the hospital sheets — yet now impossible to ignore.
His mother covered her mouth, tears spilling freely. "My baby's having a baby…"
"I didn't even know she was seeing someone," Valerio muttered, voice low and tense. "She never said anything."
His mother's sob turned into a bitter laugh — sharp and broken. "She didn't tell us because she knew what this family does to people we love."
Valerio's chest tightened at her words, but he said nothing.
Instead, his gaze hardened. Whoever hurt her — whoever put both Alessia and her child in danger — wasn't just facing the wrath of the Moretti family anymore.
They were facing him.
The tense silence in the hospital corridor broke with the sharp click of dress shoes striking the floor. Valerio looked up just as Dante Russo strode in, his dark eyes scanning the room before locking onto him.
"Val," Dante's voice was tight — not with formality, but with concern. "I came as soon as I heard."
Valerio's shoulders sagged slightly, the weight of the night catching up to him. "It's bad," he muttered. "She's still unconscious… and she's—"
"Pregnant," Dante finished, his face hardening.
"Yeah, I heard." Dante muttered from behind him.
Dante stepped closer, his usual confident demeanor faltering as he glanced toward the hospital room door. "I thought you knew."
"I didn't," Valerio admitted, bitterness coating his words. "None of us did."
For a moment, neither man spoke. The silence felt heavier than before — heavier than the blood on their hands, the power they carried, or the enemies they'd made.
"I'll find out who did this," Dante said quietly, his voice low but fierce. "Whoever put your sister in that bed? They're as good as dead."
Valerio gave a bitter chuckle, one that held no humor. "Get in line."
They stood there a moment longer — two men hardened by their worlds, but now united by something far more personal: family.
As Valreio's mother left, he stood by the window, knuckles white as he gripped the glass of whiskey in his hand. His gaze was fixed on the television screen, his expression cold and deadly.
Valerio stared at the wires snaking from his sister's arm. The rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor steadied his pulse, but the anger — cold and sharp — carved itself deeper into his chest. "I'll kill him," he muttered. "I'll kill Vesper myself."
Valerio's grip tightened, glass cracking slightly beneath his fingers.
"Vesper doesn't leave unfinished work," he growled. "He knew exactly what he was doing."
"She's still unconscious," Dante added gravely. "We can't even ask her what happened."
Valerio clenched his jaw. First his grandfather… now his sister. Vesper had cut his family twice. He wouldn't get the chance to strike a third time.
Valerio's eyes never left the screen — the image of the bloodied knife, its unmistakable 'V' carving, burned in his mind.
"He's going to pay," he muttered darkly. "I'll make sure of it."
"You've started a war you can't win. Run while you can, Vesper."
Valerio Moretti is a man who commands attention the moment he steps into a room — not through loud words or reckless violence, but with an unsettling presence that demands respect. Standing at 6'3" with a lean yet powerful build, he carries himself with the quiet confidence of someone who's always in control.
His sharp, chiseled features are defined by a strong jawline, high cheekbones, and piercing storm-grey eyes — cold and calculating, like steel tempered in fire. His dark brown hair is kept neatly styled, with a slight wave that softens his otherwise hardened appearance.
Valerio's wardrobe reflects his precision — crisp, tailored suits in shades of charcoal and midnight blue, always paired with polished shoes and a sleek watch that gleams faintly beneath his cuff. He's meticulous in everything — from the way he dresses to the way he speaks — calculated, measured, and lethal.
A thin, jagged scar runs from just above his left eyebrow down to his cheekbone — a reminder of a past encounter that nearly cost him his life. When asked about it, he smiles — cold and humorless — as if daring anyone to push him further.
Valerio isn't loud in his anger, but when he speaks, his voice carries weight — deep, steady, and laced with quiet menace. He doesn't make threats — he makes promises.
To the outside world, Valerio Moretti is a powerful mafia leader — feared, respected, and ruthless. But to those closest to him, he's more than that — a man driven by loyalty to his family, especially his younger sister, Alessia. Her safety is his weakness, and now that she's been hurt — with Vesper's blade left behind as a calling card — Valerio's rage simmers just beneath the surface, dangerously close to boiling over.
For Valerio, this isn't just business — it's personal. And when things get personal, blood always follows.
The room was dimly lit, the faint glow of a single desk lamp casting sharp shadows across the walls. The air felt heavy — thick with tension and unspoken rage. Valerio Moretti stood at the head of the table, knuckles pressed against its surface, his storm-grey eyes fixed on the array of photographs and reports scattered before him.
Alessia's face stared back at him from one of the pictures — her skin pale, an oxygen mask pressed to her face as she lay unconscious in a hospital bed. Bruises marred her arms, faint but visible.
"She's still out cold," Valerio muttered, voice low and sharp. "Until she wakes up, we're blind."
"Not completely," Dante replied. "We've got pieces… we just need to connect them."
Valerio's jaw tightened. "Then start talking."
Dante leaned forward, dragging a photo to the center — a grainy image of Elias Greco, his lifeless body sprawled across the floor of Ember's Edge, a bloodied knife lodged deep in his chest.
"Elias was found here," Dante began. "Killed around midnight. Witnesses said he was seen arguing with someone earlier — no clear description, but enough to suggest it wasn't a regular customer."
"Vesper," Valerio growled. "Who else?"
"Maybe…" Dante hesitated, then slid another photo beside the first — this one showing Alessia, unconscious in a nearby alley. Her coat was torn, her purse spilled across the pavement.
"We're guessing she tried to leave the bar when things turned ugly," Dante continued. "Someone must've grabbed her before she could get far."
"Did anyone see her get attacked?" Valerio snapped.
"No, but…" Dante hesitated again. "There's something else."
He placed a final photo on the table — a close-up shot of a knife embedded in the unknown man's dead body near where Alessia was found. The blade gleamed beneath the camera flash, its handle marked with the unmistakable engraving of a bold, jagged 'V'.
"Same signature," Dante said grimly. "Vesper's mark."
Valerio's fingers curled into a fist. "That bastard didn't just kill Greco," he muttered darkly. "He went after my sister."
"Maybe," Dante said carefully. "But… something doesn't add up."
Valerio's gaze snapped to him. "What doesn't?"
"Alessia's injuries…" Dante dragged the medical report across the table. "Bruises on her arms, scratches — nothing fatal. Whoever grabbed her… they didn't finish the job."
"Because someone stopped them," Valerio shot back. "But why would Vesper —"
"I'm not saying it wasn't Vesper," Dante interrupted, "but if that knife was meant for her… why was it found in the other man's dead body and not in her chest?"
Valerio's silence was cold and sharp.
"Someone saved her," Dante said quietly. I need to know who the other man was. I don't think he worked for me like Greco die."
Valerio stared at the knife in the photograph — Vesper's signature. A symbol of death, yet this time… it hadn't been left in a victim's heart.
Instead, it had been left behind like a warning.
"Find out everything," Valerio ordered. His voice was calm, but his grip on the table betrayed the storm inside him. "I want to know who was that man, there must be a connection between him and my sister. Where the hell is Vesper hiding."
His eyes drifted back to Alessia — her peaceful face far too pale.