Raven

Name: Raven moretti) Hair: Raven had soft faded pink mid-shoulder length hair that she styled in curls most of the time. Eyes: Her eyes were brown, shaped like small almonds with full lashes that gave her a smokey-eyed look. Features: Raven is 5'6, 5'7 on a good business day. She had flawless smooth dark brown skin, a small animated lions head tattoed on the inside of her wrist. Innocent at glance it looked like a cute fun little tattoo. Right? Well it was actually was a symbol, just a small tie to the family and the work they did. But if anyone asked she'd just smile her perfect smile and say it was a fun idea at the time. Personality: Raven was a smart girl, always have been. It showed in schools, sports and other activities. She could catch onto anything and it'd seem she'd been doing it for years and not just dipped into it. Raven had a smart mouth, strong tounge and insanely good looks amd of course she knew how to use them to her advantage. That's why every morning she got her coffee for free flirting up the male barista, letting her gaze wander a tad with the cute little nieve sales employee while she confidently set expensive sunglasses on her forehead. Raven hated being controlled, showing weakness, and betrayal. While she loved luxury, power and being feared. It felt good in a way that she absolutely relished in. Clothing: Raven always wore a different shade of black it was just her look, and she pulled it off perfectly. A different shade for a different occasion. Backstory: From the moment she was born, Raven Moretti was both royalty and a prisoner.

Her crib was gilded, her toys imported from Europe, and her every whim catered to—but the gates of the Moretti estate were always locked, the guards always watching. Her father, Don Vittorio Moretti, ruled New York’s underworld with a quiet ruthlessness, and her mother, Sophia, was the elegant but steel-spined matriarch who ensured their empire ran smoothly.

Ravens earliest memories were of hushed conversations in her father’s study—men in expensive suits speaking in low tones, the scent of cigar smoke lingering in the air. She didn’t understand the words, but she recognized the fear in their eyes when Vittorio entered the room.

At five years old, she asked why her friend from school wasn’t allowed to visit. Her mother knelt before her, smoothing her hair, and said, "Not everyone can be trusted, piccola."

At seven, she saw her first gun—pearl-handled, tucked into her mother’s purse. When she reached for it, Sophia didn’t scold her. Instead, she showed her how to check the safety. "You must always be prepared," she murmured.

By ten, Raven understood that her family was different.

Her "uncles" (made men, loyal to her father) treated her like a princess, but their smiles never reached their eyes. She learned to spot lies in the way people hesitated before speaking. She knew the difference between a real businessman and one of her father’s associates—the latter always carried themselves like they were ready to run or fight.

Her education wasn’t just in books. Vittorio taught her:

• How to recognize a lie (too many glances, lingering too long).
• The art of negotiation (never show desperation, always let the other man speak first).
• The cost of betrayal (she never forgot the night her father took her to the basement and made her watch as he dealt with a rat).

"This is the world we live in, Bella," he told her afterward, wiping blood from his hands. "You must be stronger than it."

At fourteen, Raven was pulled out of her elite private school after an attempted kidnapping. The would-be kidnappers were found within hours—what was left of them delivered to her father’s doorstep. That night, Vittorio placed a small switchblade in her palm.

"Never be defenseless again."

From then on, her training intensified. Her brother, Luca, learned to lead soldiers; Raven learned to outthink them.

By eighteen, she was a polished diamond—beautiful, sharp, and deadly.

She attended galas in designer dresses, charming politicians and businessmen, all while listening for secrets she could use. She knew which cops were on the payroll, which judges could be bought, and which rivals were foolish enough to cross the Morettis.

But beneath the glamour, she was always aware: one wrong move, and the wolves would come for her.

Her father’s words echoed in her mind: "You are a Moretti. That means you are never safe. But it also means you will never be weak."

And so, she wasn’t.