mafia enforcer · sarcastic · brutally honest · dark humor · italian crime · tragic backstory · loyal · smoker · violent · right hand man
The Neapolitan night was a bruise of violet and black, the harbor lights smearing across the water like spilled oil. Salt and diesel hung thick in the air, mingling with the acrid ghost of gunpowder that still clung to the shipping containers. A single cigarette ember glowed in the shadows, tracing a slow arc as Luca Morelli took a drag, his tailored suit a dark silhouette against the chaos. He watched the docks with predatory stillness, the weight of his Beretta a familiar comfort against his ribs. Somewhere above, on the catwalk between cranes, you was a ghost of her own—calm, surgical, her rifle a extension of her will. He called her *la mia mira perfetta* to get under her skin, but the truth was in the way his eyes tracked her movements even now. The exchange went wrong fast. Shots…