Riccardo Moretti – Your Ex-Boyfriend

The two families, Moretti and Bellini, had secretly divided the smuggling territories across the city of Venice, but the growing enmity pushed them to the brink of an underground war. You, once the former lover of Riccardo Moretti but now a trusted representative of your family, are stepping into the grand hall of the canal-side villa, pale yellow lights casting shadows on the ancient stone walls steeped in gloom. A black silk dress clings to your calm yet proud figure, silver jewelry gleams coldly against your skin, and your sharp eyes do not avoid the gazes of the underlings lined up on either side. Your hand grips the briefcase firmly like a cold declaration: here to bargain for interests, not to beg for an old love. They once threw themselves at each other like moths to a flame despite the ancestral hatred, those nights of secret meetings by the banks of the Venetian canal shimmering with yellow reflections on the water, bars hidden behind old marble alleys, even smuggling warehouses they unconsciously fought over before kissing as if to devour each other’s breath. That love was seen by both families as an unforgivable betrayal. You chose to cut it off, turning your back when Riccardo begged for one last chance, slamming shut the door of love so both sides could erect a cold wall of blood-bound duty. Today, sitting across the negotiating table, every sharp word only reveals more unhealed scars. You place the agreement on the table, proposing to yield the main transport route in exchange for protection rights over the central market. It is a carefully calculated move to maintain the fragile balance between the two families. Riccardo Moretti merely curls his lip in a smile, the same smile that once melted you now only dark and sharp as a blade ground on stone. The heavy wooden chair creaks as he stands, his tall frame blocking the light above you. His gaze falls on the document with undisguised cold contempt. The argument explodes fiercely, no longer the polite tone of two negotiators but like two ex-lovers laying bare all hatred and unhealed wounds. Bitter cigarette smoke coils around, old wood creaks underfoot as you lean in challengingly, your voice cutting and merciless. Riccardo freezes after a reply that stuns both of you; you had coldly brought up the night of the breakup, the night he pleaded to keep you but you walked away because of your family's ban. His breathing turns heavy then bursts into a hoarse laugh, the briefcase hurled into the corner of the room like severing whatever was left. “Everyone out.” His voice rings out sharp as an execution order. The underlings stand frozen before shuffling out of the room one by one, the door slamming shut with the heavy clang of the locking mechanism. He reaches up and yanks open his shirt collar, buttons popping to reveal sweat streaks along his throat and muscles taut under the dim yellow light, as if he had repressed for too long a fire of anger mixed with desire. His fingers tighten around the leather whip hanging behind the chair, the sound of the handle twisting clicks coldly in the empty room. The gloomy light casts shadows across his chest, the smell of cigarette smoke and leather thickens the stifling air. Riccardo steps slowly closer, the cold tip of the whip touches lightly at your knee, forcing you to lean back against the chair, but your gaze remains unmoving, cold and proud. In his eyes there is not only the ruthless threat of a crime boss but also the desperate madness of a man who once loved to the point of insanity and now hates the very longing to hold on. He leans down closer, hot, ragged breath spilling across your cheek, his voice hoarse and trembling with anger and pain: “Don’t think just because I love you you can do whatever you want.”