CHAPTER FOUR
The late afternoon sun cast long, golden shadows across the cobblestones of the coastal town, catching the salt spray from the harbor and turning the air into a shimmering haze.
Zina carried a canvas bag filled with fresh produce and wrapped fish, moving through the bustling square with the effortless, fluid grace of a ghost. She did not bump into the tourists.
She did not catch the eyes of the vendors.
She existed in the negative space of the crowd, observing everything while being noticed by no one.
It was this precise, ingrained awareness that caused her to stop near the edge of a sun-drenched café terrace.
The atmosphere around one particular table, situated near the stone balustrade overlooking the water, was wrong. Zina recognized the shift in the air immediately. It was a tension that had nothing to do with the sea breeze and everything to do with violence.
She stepped into the shade of a canvas awning, adjusting her bag and pretending to admire a display of painted ceramics, while her dark eyes locked onto the men at the table.
There were four men sitting. Three of them were visibly agitated, their posture aggressive, their hands resting too close to the lapels of their jackets. They were a new faction, rough and unpolished, trying to project a power they did not possess.
But it was the fourth man who held Zina’s attention.
He sat perfectly still, a cup of espresso resting untouched before him.
He was striking—tall, with broad shoulders draped in a bespoke charcoal suit that looked out of place in the casual seaside town, yet he wore it as if he owned the town itself.
His dark hair was swept back, his jawline sharp and shadowed, and his green-grey eyes were devoid of any recognizable human warmth.
He did not fidget. He did not lean forward.
He simply occupied the space with the undeniable gravity of a king.
Zina knew what he was before a single word reached her ears. He was a Don. It was in the microscopic shifts of his guards standing ten feet away. It was in the way the three men across from him were sweating despite the coastal breeze.
Zina took a slow step closer, letting the ambient noise of the square mask her approach.
"You are asking for thirty percent of the southern port logistics," one of the agitated men said, his voice carrying a harsh, desperate edge. "That is the price for our cooperation, Moretti. We have the manpower. You have the ships."
Moretti.
Zina’s breath caught for a fraction of a second.
Alessandro Moretti. Even in the insulated, fiercely protected walls of the Kazan estate, Emir Kazan had spoken that name.
The Milanese Don. A man who had purged the chaotic violence of his father’s reign and replaced it with a cold, terrifyingly efficient corporate empire.
He was ruthless, exact, and despised disorder.
"You misunderstand the nature of this conversation," Alessandro Moretti replied.
His voice was a low, smooth baritone that barely carried over the sound of the seagulls, yet it commanded silence from the men across from him.
He did not raise his voice. He did not need to.
"This is not a negotiation. It is a courtesy.
You have moved into a territory that operates under my architecture.
You will use my resources, and you will accept the five percent margin I have allocated for you. "
"Five percent is an insult!" the leader of the faction spat, slamming a hand on the iron table.
Alessandro did not even blink. He slowly reached out, picked up his espresso, and took a measured sip. "Five percent is survival. You accept the terms I have set, or you die. There is no third option. Decide before I finish my coffee, because I have absolutely no time for this nonsense."
Zina’s mind raced as she backed away, blending seamlessly into a group of passing tourists.
An Italian Don. Here. In the very town where she was hiding.
The men who had slaughtered her family had been Italian.
They had spoken with the same Northern cadence.
Alessandro Moretti might not have ordered the hit himself—his reputation was built on clean money, not wiping out foreign dynasties—but a man with his power would know who did.
He possessed the network, the intelligence, and the resources that Zina so desperately needed to uncover the truth.
If she could find out who killed her father and brothers, she could neutralize the threat against Reza. But she could not just walk up to a man who issued death sentences over coffee and ask for a favor. If he was involved in the Kazan massacre, she would be delivering herself to the executioner.
Alessandro Moretti had to become her target. She needed to study him, understand his perimeter, and find a way inside.
***
That evening, the apartment above the bakery smelled of roasting garlic and damp stone. The shutters were pulled tight against the night air. Reza was asleep in his small bed, exhausted from the day's lessons with his grandmother.
Zina sat at the worn wooden table across from her mother, keeping her voice to a low, intense whisper as she recounted what she had seen.
Roxana listened in silence, her aristocratic face illuminated by the single overhead bulb.
Despite the rough linen dress she wore, she still carried the aura of the Kazan matriarch.
She absorbed the information, processing the tactical geometry of the situation with the same cold pragmatism her daughter possessed.
"An opportunity," Roxana murmured, folding her hands on the table. "If he controls Europe, he knows every contract that passes through the borders. He would know who took the contract on your father. But getting to him is the problem."
"I could offer a service," Zina suggested, tracing the grain of the wood with her fingernail.
"I observed his perimeter today. He travels with a small, elite detail, but there are blind spots.
They rely too heavily on intimidation and not enough on counter-surveillance.
I could approach him as a security analyst. Prove I can breach his systems, encrypt his ledgers, tighten his physical guard. "
Roxana shook her head immediately, her eyes flashing with sharp disapproval.
"No. Why would a man like Alessandro Moretti trust a stranger who walks out of the shadows and points out his weaknesses?
He is paranoid, Zina. He is a Don. If you approach him with that level of skill, he will not hire you.
He will interrogate you to find out who sent you, and then he will put a bullet in your head. "
Zina sighed, leaning back in her chair. "You are right. It is too aggressive."
"Whatever brings you into his world must feel organic to him," Roxana said, her voice firm. "He must believe he is the one who found you. He must believe he holds the power in the dynamic."
Zina crossed her arms, a reluctant, cynical smirk touching the corner of her mouth. "Well... he is very good-looking. And men like that are rarely immune to their own reflections."
Roxana looked at her daughter, her brow arching in a flat, deeply unimpressed stare. "Are you seriously suggesting you bat your eyelashes at a Mafia Don?"
"It would be a last resort," Zina defended quietly, though she felt the absurdity of it even as she said it. "But Maman, I need a way in. If he thinks I am just a beautiful civilian, he might lower his guard enough for me to get close to his inner circle. I just need a crack in his armor."
"It cannot look orchestrated," Roxana warned, her tone softening with maternal concern, but hardening with necessity. "The moment he smells a trap, you are dead, Sherezine. You must wait for the exact right moment. Let the world present the opportunity, and then you strike."
***
For the next three days, Zina became a phantom.
She shadowed Alessandro Moretti. She learned the rhythm of his movements.
He operated out of a high-end coastal villa, but he conducted his meetings in the public squares, projecting an image of untouchable security.
He was always accompanied by two men: a tall, muscular enforcer with restless energy, and a calm, sharply dressed man who acted as his counsel.
On the fourth afternoon, the opportunity presented itself, but it came with a price.
Alessandro was seated at a corner café near the edge of the historic district. His underboss, Matteo, sat to his right, and his consigliere, Bernardo, sat to his left. Zina was positioned across the street, pretending to read a newspaper on a public bench.
She was analyzing the sightlines when she saw it.
Two buildings down, on the second-floor balcony of a vacant apartment, a shadow shifted against the sunlight.
It was a microscopic movement, but Zina had been trained by the best of the best killers in the Middle East. She saw the dark, matte barrel of a suppressed rifle resting on the stone railing, aiming directly downward.
The trajectory was perfectly aligned with Alessandro’s chest.
Zina’s mind exploded into a thousand rapid calculations.
If she shouted a warning, she would expose herself as a trained operative.
She would instantly become a person of interest to Moretti.
But if she did nothing, the only man who could give her answers about her family would be dead in three seconds.
She didn't think. She moved.
Zina stood up, folding the newspaper, and stepped off the curb.
She did not run; running drew the eye. She moved with a brisk, natural stride, crossing the cobblestones toward the café.
As she approached the edge of Alessandro’s table, a waiter was passing by carrying a silver tray holding a pitcher of iced water and several glasses.
Timing was everything.
Zina deliberately clipped her heel against the edge of a paving stone, throwing her weight forward just enough to violently bump her shoulder into the waiter.