Chapter Five
Lorenzo
One week.
That’s how long they’ve kept me locked in this concrete box, playing their little power games.
Since I stopped cooperating and started breaking noses, they assigned me a shrink. Three sessions a week, like that’s supposed to fix me. Like I’m some project they can save.
This is my second session.
The first one cried and quit.
This one? She’s on her knees.
I lean back in the chair, eyes half-lidded, letting the weight of the situation soak in. Her hands shake as she works me over, throat gagging around my cock like she’s trying to find redemption at the back of it. Pathetic.
I grab a fistful of her hair, dark brown, tied too tight, like she thought it would make her look professional this morning.
Now it’s a mess. My hand knots in it, pulling harder, forcing her deeper until her nose is buried in me.
Her mascara’s running, mixing with spit, tears streaming down her cheeks.
The cameras are still on.
Let them watch.
Let them see exactly the kind of people they hire.
I hope someone’s jerking off to the footage in the security room.
Her nails dig into my thighs like she’s desperate for praise, for validation, like she thinks this earns her a gold star.
It doesn’t.
She’s mediocre at best, sloppy and eager in all the wrong ways. But at least she’s obedient, and today, I’m not in the mood for finesse. Today, I want it messy.
I thrust into her throat harder. Deeper. Faster.
She chokes, drool cascading down her chin, eyes wide and glassy, pupils blown.
Good.
The weight in my gut coils tight and I shove her face down, holding her there while I empty into her mouth. She gags, but she keeps swallowing, licking me clean like she’s starving.
No thank you.
No gentle aftercare.
She’s not here for that, and neither am I.
I grab her by the jaw, forcing her to look at me, her lips swollen, her eyes pleading for something, acknowledgment, approval, maybe affection. She’s not getting any of it.
“Tomorrow at the same time?”
Her voice trembles, like she’s asking me on a fucking date instead of booking her next mouthful.
She wipes her lips, her brown hair falling in messy strands over her bare chest. Her nipples are hard, her thighs still slick. She’s soaked, desperate for me to finish what she started. But I don’t give a fuck if she’s aching or humiliated. That’s not my concern.
It’s pathetic, really, seeing her like this. The same woman who strutted into this office all polished and professional, holding her clipboard, ready to dissect my mind, now kneeling on the cold floor like she belongs there. She wanted to fix me. Guess this is what she got instead.
I look her over, slowly, deliberately. Watch her blush as she cups her own tits, needing something more from me. Craving it. She won’t get it. I’m not here to play house.
“Tomorrow’s fine for me.” My lips curl into a smirk as I stand, pulling my pants back up, buttoning them without another glance.
I leave her there, scoffing, scrambling to clean herself, wiping the evidence off her face like she can scrub away the shame.
She’ll spend the next hour trying to clear the scent of sex from the room. Good fucking luck with that.
I walk back to my cell, bored out of my goddamn mind.
This place is a joke.
Steel bars and brick walls mean shit when you own half the people in charge. The other half are just too stupid to realize they’re already playing by my rules.
At least the tech’s in place. Before they dragged me in here, Andres slipped me the device, a little something special I planted under the main security station last night.
It lets him tap into everything: cameras, mics, files.
Trojan Horse, that’s what I am right now.
The enemy let me in through the front fucking door.
I pull out my phone, yes, my phone.
They patted me down but didn’t find it. That’s because I didn’t let them. Andres delivered it on his last visit, and no one here questions when you’re Lorenzo Moretti.
I scroll through the media bullshit. Headlines everywhere:
“Billionaire Heir Lorenzo Moretti Arrested.”
“Moretti Empire Under FBI Scrutiny.”
“Rumors of Mafia Ties Surface Again.”
The press is jerking off over this like it’s the trial of the century.
Let them.
They won’t get a conviction because I won’t be here long enough for that.
I open my chess app.
Yeah, chess.
When you’ve already beaten life’s game, you need something to keep your brain busy, even if it means playing against yourself.
Mid-game, my phone vibrates.
Andres.
Andres: I’m in.
Andres: But I need more time to go through everything. You’ll have to stay put another two weeks.
Two weeks?
I roll my neck, cracking the tension out of it.
ME: What the fuck am I supposed to do here for two weeks? I’m bored as fuck.
Andres: Find something.
I grit my teeth. Next time I see him, I might break his jaw just to pass the time.
I scroll through my emails, Ashley’s been handling most of it like usual, but I keep tabs.
Business doesn’t stop just because I’m sitting behind bars.
Weapons, real estate, logistics, all running smoothly.
Lev’s still picking fights and burning money in clubs, but I’ll deal with that later.
Kirill checked in too. He wasn’t thrilled about this plan, never is, but he knows what’s at stake. We all do.
This isn’t about survival.
This is about taking the whole fucking game apart from the inside.
I hear the footsteps before I even look up.
Heavy, angry, rushed.
Here comes the fucking detective.
He storms toward my cell, his face as red as a fresh kill, eyes bloodshot, jaw clenched so hard I can hear the fucking grind of his teeth.
Poor bastard must’ve just found out about the show on the cameras.
Pathetic.
“Stop fucking them.” His voice cracks like he’s barely holding his shit together.
I raise a brow, lean back on the concrete bed like I’ve got all the time in the world.
I let the smirk spread across my face, slow and deliberate, like I don’t have a clue what he’s talking about.
Of course, I fucking do. That shrink was on her knees five hours ago, choking on my cock like her life depended on it.
“You’ll rot here.” His voice trembles but he thinks he’s in control.
His forehead vein looks like it’s about to pop. The motherfucker’s vibrating with rage.
“We’ve got enough evidence to keep you locked for another week. Maybe more.”
He says it like he’s proud, like he just won the lottery.
Cute.
Little does he know, Andres is feeding him exactly what I want him to find. Feeding him crumbs while the real shit stays buried where they’ll never reach it. They think they’re running the game, but they’re just pieces on my board.
I sit up, let my feet hit the floor, cracking my neck, stretching slow like a predator bored of playing with its food.
“They’re firing that stupid bitch,” he snarls, spit flying, “and if you pull this shit again, Moretti, I’ll beat you until no one will recognize that pretty face of yours.”
I chuckle, low and dangerous, the kind of laugh that makes weak men sweat.
“Maybe you should do the job for them, Detective,” I hiss his title like it’s an insult, stepping forward until I’m towering over him, eyes locked onto his. I see the hate in his stare. I feed on it.
“Be my psychologist for the day. Sit down, take some notes. Maybe you’ll get so fascinated by me like they all do.” I lean closer, lowering my voice to a rasp. “Maybe you’ll end up on your knees too.”
His hand twitches toward his belt like he’s gonna pull something or maybe just swing.
Do it, I dare him with my eyes.
I would love to paint this concrete with his fucking blood.
He slams his fist against the bars so hard the metal rattles. The sound echoes down the hallway, but I don’t flinch.
His face is a storm, rage, disgust, humiliation.
I’ve already won.
And he knows it.
I turn my back on him like he’s not even worth my attention. Lay back on the mattress, pull out my phone. Yes, my fucking phone. Watch his eyes flick to it, his surprise not even masked anymore.
I scroll through my messages, completely ignoring him, knowing my silence will piss him off more than any insult.
“You’ll regret this, Moretti,” he seethes.
His voice cracks again.
Weak. Predictable. Boring.
I smirk without looking up. “Get in line.”
He storms off, leaving the air thick with his failure.
That’s right, I think, my fingers tapping against the screen.
You’re just another badge in a suit.
I’m Lorenzo fucking Moretti.