Chapter Eight
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Pulling up to the Moretti estate, I kill my bike and hop off to join the others.
“Think he’s compensating for something?” I ask, staring up at the massive stone mansion.
“Just how big is this family?” Tank mutters.
“It’s probably mostly guards,” Maverick adds right as the front door swings open.
A sharply dressed man steps out, dark suit, darker eyes, and the kind of posture that says he’s been trained since birth to break bones without wrinkling his jacket.
“Buongiorno, gentlemen,” he says, voice smooth as aged wine. “My name is Enzo. If you would please follow me to the sitting room. There is much to discuss.”
His accent wraps around every word…rich, rolling, unmistakably Italian.
“Please,” he adds with a polite nod, stepping aside with old-world charm, “Don Moretti is expecting your presence. And he does not like to be kept waiting.”
Tank leans toward me. “This guy’s too smooth. Makes me nervous.”
Enzo smiles.
“Do not worry,” he says lightly. “If the Don wished you harmed, you would not have reached the front door.”
Bones snorts. “Comforting.”
Enzo gives a small shrug. “In my experience, signore, the truth rarely is.”
Then he gestures again. This time with less warmth, more authority.
“Follow me, per favore.”
We follow him into a foyer big enough to fit the entire clubhouse and maybe half the damn compound. Marble floors, sweeping staircase, gold accents… the works.
“Definitely compensating,” Tank mutters my earlier words.
Enzo leads us through the hall at a steady, unhurried pace.
We pass portraits lining the walls…stern men in suits, women in expensive dresses, scenes painted in dark, dramatic colors. All of it screams old money, and don’t touch anything unless you want to lose a finger.
Guards stand at key points…silent, alert, hands clasped in front of them. Not one of them looks surprised to see us. Not intimidated, either. None even makes eye contact. It’s just unnatural.
“The Don is a very private man,” Enzo says without turning. “You will not see him today. He speaks only when he chooses to.”
Before anyone can comment, Enzo pushes open a double set of doors.
The sitting room is lavish in a way that makes the clubhouse look like a shack. Velvet seating, a crystal bar cart, warm lighting that glows golden instead of harsh.
“Please,” Enzo says, gesturing toward the room. “Make yourselves at home. Help yourself to the refreshments at the bar. I’ll inform the Don’s representative that you’re here.”
“Why not the Don himself?” Spike asks.
“He’s a very busy…and private…man,” Enzo says.
“Does he ever meet with anyone?” I ask.
Enzo gives a faint smile. “On rare occasions. The man values… secrecy. Tradition.”
“Must be nice,” Tank mutters. “Bossing people around without ever leaving the couch.”
Enzo chuckles softly. “Couch? No, signore. The Don is everywhere. Rarely is he actually home.”
“Is he here now?” Maverick asks, voice steady.
“He arrived only moments ago,” Enzo replies easily.
“Then he’s available to speak to us,” I say, lifting a brow.
Enzo’s polite smile doesn’t move, but his tone turns to iron wrapped in silk.
“You will speak with his representative… or you will speak with no one at all.”
Enzo simply inclines his head toward the sitting room.
“Prego. Take your seats. He will be here shortly.”
We step inside. I barely make it three paces before the far door opens with a soft click.
A man steps through…tall, mid-thirties maybe. His suit is pressed, his hair slicked back, and he walks with the kind of precision that says I have high power here.
Could he actually be the Don, and they’ve just decided not to tell us? Hell, if that’s the case, Enzo could be the Don. Even one of the guards.
The man gives us a sharp once-over.
“Buonasera, signori,” he says, accent thick as honey but words clean. “Welcome to la casa Moretti.”
Spike stands and shakes the man's hand.
“My name is Luca,” he continues, rolling the name off his tongue. “I am, how you say, second in command for il Don. Anything you wish to say to him…you will say to me first.”
He gestures toward the chairs with an open palm.
“Please. Sedetevi. Sit. il Don, he wishes a conversation… molto importante. Very important.”
Tank leans back, arms crossed. “Important how?”
Luca’s eyes flick to him, dark and sharp.
“Important enough,” he says, tapping two fingers against his temple, “that he sends me instead of an underling.”
Maverick huffs quietly.
Then Luca takes his seat opposite us, folds his hands, and says:
“Il Don respects your club. You have honored your agreement. For this… we are grateful.”
His accent thickens around the last word, voice dipping low.
“But now,” Luca continues, leaning in ever so slightly, “there is someone… how you say… trespassing. On both our lands.”
The room goes still.
“Cortéz,” Spike says.
Luca nods to Spike. “We need… cooperation. Sì? We have a problem. And il Don doesn’t like problems.”
He settles back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other with deliberate calm.
“We have intel,” Luca begins, “that Cortéz plans to attack your compound and our Estate within the next week.”
Say what?
Spike leans forward. “Trusted intel?”
Luca’s brows lift.
“Of course,” he says, hand brushing his chest. “You think our Don would accept information from an untrusted source? Per favore. The lives of our famiglia are at stake.” He taps the table once. “And you should already know that il Don holds the safety of the Moretti family above all else.”
Spike nods immediately. “Of course. My apologies.”
Luca inclines his head, accepting. “Is nothing. But when we speak of danger,” he adds, voice dropping into something colder, “we speak with precision. With respect. Because the wrong move…no matter how small…could be deadly.”
“Is your Don willing to share the intel he has?” I ask.
“Only if an agreement is made to work together,” Luca replies. “La fiducia…trust…is something we must settle before either of us stands a chance against the Mexican Cartel.”
“That’s bold of you to say,” Bones cuts in, arms crossed, “when your Don doesn’t trust us enough to show his face. How the hell does he expect to win this war if he fights from the shadows?”
Luca’s smile curves…slow and amused…like Bones just said something adorably na?ve.
“Oh, but, my friend,” he says with faint laughter. “You are wrong. Il Don is never hiding in the shadows.”
Bones narrows his eyes. “Funny. Haven’t seen him yet.”
Luca taps his temple. “But you all know his face. You know his name. You have heard it whispered in business. In back rooms. In deals made and unmade.” His voice deepens. “And make no mistake…he knows yours. Every one of your names. Your family. Your friends.”
Tank shifts in his seat.
Luca continues, folding his hands neatly on his knee.
“Il Don does not show his face to prove power. He does not speak loudly. He does not threaten.” A small, respectful nod toward Spike. “He respects you. All of you. And for years he has told his famiglia… that the Shadows are under Moretti protection.”
That freezes the room.
Spike sits straighter. “We don’t need protection.”
Luca shrugs lightly, as though it’s simply the natural order of things.
“He believes in reciprocity. You keep your word. You keep your territory clean. You deal fairly. For the Don, that is enough.”
His dark eyes sweep over us, lingering just long enough to make each man feel seen.
“He protects those who hold honor,” Luca says. “And your club…whether you accept it or not…has earned that.”
He leans back, expression settling into something firm.
“So do not mistake his absence for fear or deception.” Luca spreads his hands gracefully. “Il Don watches. Il Don listens. And Il Don protects. He will show himself to you soon. But for the moment, he must remain unseen. You will understand in time.”
“Are we being watched?” Maverick asks suddenly from his place in the corner, chin tilted up toward a shadowed corner of the ceiling.
“Yes,” Luca answers without the slightest hesitation. “Even now, Il Don sees your faces.”
Then Luca tilts his head, studying Maverick with mild curiosity.
“But tell me…why do you stand in the corner? Would you prefer a different type of chair?” He gestures vaguely at the velvet seating, lips twitching. “I know these ones can be… how you say… unnaturally soft.”
Spike clears his throat. “Maverick’s very vigilant. He almost never sits in a room full of other people.”
Luca nods, accepting that without question.
“Capisco. I understand. In our world, vigilance is a virtue.” He taps the arm of his own chair lightly. “Even Il Don stands more often than he sits. A man must always know how to move when danger comes, sì?”
Maverick gives a single shrug, staying exactly where he is.
Luca continues, calm and composed as ever:
“Do not worry. There is no danger here. Not today. If there were,” he adds with a soft smile, “you would not have been invited inside.”
“About this intel?” Spike pushes.
“Right,” Luca says with a warm, deliberate smile.
“We have a man on the inside working in very close proximity to the Los Fantasmas Don… Cortéz.” He taps two fingers against the arm of his chair.
“He has sent us audio of Cortéz planning an attack on the Iron Shadows motorcycle club and the Italian Mafia… specifically those residing in the Palm Springs area.”
He gives a small shrug.
“You are welcome to listen to the audio. But it will tell you nothing I will not.”
Spike nods once, letting him continue.
“The Moretti family is large,” Luca goes on, settling deeper into his chair.
“The Italian Mafia itself is more than triple in size than what we have here. We operate in many of the same ways you do…arms, narcotics…” He spreads his hands.
“But we also keep our fingers in… many pots. Protection, business dealings, investments. Some legal. Some… eh, not so much.”
Maverick snorts quietly.
Luca leans back, folding his hands.