Saints & Sinners
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1. Rooftop Empire
Luca Moretti – Night – Manhattan
The city pulsed beneath him like a living thing—restless, electric, never quiet. Luca Moretti stood at the edge of his private rooftop lounge, a tumbler of bourbon in one hand, smoke curling from a lit cigar in the other. Downtown Manhattan glittered below, all glass and ambition. From up here, the world looked clean.
But Luca knew better.
Behind him, the quiet murmur of voices swelled as the inner circle took their seats around the obsidian conference table. The space was opulence wrapped in shadows: dark marble floors, deep leather chairs, low lighting that made everything feel like a secret. His sanctuary. His kingdom.
He took one last drag from the cigar, snuffed it out, and turned.
"Let's get started."
Rafa DeLuca, his longtime second, sat forward. "We've got a problem on the West Side. One of our trucks got hit. No survivors. No goods. No trace."
Luca's jaw tightened. "Who?"
"No one's claiming it," Rafa said. "But word is, the Delgados are pushing upstate. Might be trying to carve into our territory."
Luca walked slowly toward the table, each footstep deliberate. He didn't sit. He stood behind his chair, eyes sweeping over the men gathered. Ten loyal capos. Or at least ten who swore they were.
"We've operated on the West Side for six years without interference," he said. "Someone doesn't make a move like this without knowing they're lighting a fuse. So either the Delgados have grown a new pair of balls… or someone gave them permission."
Silence.
"Meaning," Luca continued, "we might be bleeding from the inside."
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2. Blood in the Ranks
Same Night – Rooftop
Rafa leaned back, jaw clenched, the gold chain around his neck glinting in the low light. "You think one of ours is talkin'?"
"I think," Luca said, slowly pulling out his chair and sitting, "somebody's making moves without my permission. And if they're not talking yet, they will."
Across the table, Gio Mancini shifted uncomfortably. He was the newest capo—young, sharp suit, expensive watch, but nerves that hadn't fully hardened. Luca's eyes flicked to him.
"Something bothering you, Gio?"
Gio shook his head quickly. "No, boss. Just... wondering if we should hit back now. Show strength."
Luca gave a small, cold smile. "You think strength is about who bleeds first?"
Gio said nothing.
Luca steepled his fingers. "We don't react. We dissect. We find out who's playing puppet master, and then we cut the strings. Quietly."
A beat of silence passed, then Rafa grunted in agreement. "I'll put feelers out. Discreet."
"Good." Luca rose again, dismissing the group with a glance. "This meeting never happened."
One by one, the capos filed out, murmuring acknowledgments. Gio hesitated, then followed.
Rafa stayed behind.
"You really think it's internal?" he asked once the door clicked shut.
Luca poured another bourbon. "Someone knew that truck route. That schedule. That it wasn't heavily guarded. You tell me."
Rafa exhaled. "Fuckin' rats."
"We don't say that word unless we've got proof." Luca's voice was ice. "And when we do, we handle it in the old way."
He walked to the floor-to-ceiling window again, bourbon in hand.
"Keep your eyes on everyone. Even the ones who call you brother."
Rafa nodded. "What about the Delgados?"
Luca's gaze fixed on the skyline. "They'll get what's coming. But not until I know who opened the door for them."
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3. Her Name Was Emilia
Later that Night – Downtown Bar
The bar didn't have a name. Just a low red light above a black door on an alley off Delancey. No photos. No receipts. Just whiskey, music, and people who didn't want to be remembered.
She'd been watching him for weeks—photos, surveillance, dossiers. But now, seeing him in person, Emilia Hart didn't feel like an agent. She felt like a woman making a terrible decision.
He sat alone in a leather booth, shadows licking at the edges of his profile. Black suit. No tie. A looseness to his posture, but not his eyes. Those were sharp, unreadable.
She slid into the booth opposite him without asking.
Luca looked up, one brow raised. "You're either very bold or very lost."
"Maybe both," she said, offering a slow, crooked smile. Her voice was low, unhurried, threaded with smoke and challenge.
He looked at her for a beat longer than necessary. "No name?"
"No names. No lies. No promises," she said.
Something flickered in his gaze—approval, curiosity, danger. "Fair enough."
The bartender brought two drinks without being asked.
Emilia took a sip. She didn't look away. Neither did he.
They talked for hours without saying a single true thing. She told him she was a journalist. He told her he imported wine from Sicily. They laughed. They teased. She leaned closer. He didn't stop her.
And when the night ended, they left together.
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4. The Morning After
Next Day – FBI Field Office
Emilia Hart never made mistakes.
Not the kind that left her breathless in a stranger's sheets, tangled in a hotel's high-thread-count shame. And certainly not with a man whose file she'd memorized like scripture.
But there she was—lying alone in a room she didn't recognize, wearing nothing but yesterday's regret and the echo of Luca Moretti's voice.
The space around her was clean, minimal. Sleek black furniture. No personal touches. The man lived like a shadow.
He was gone, of course. No note. No number. Just a faint scent of his cologne on the pillow beside her. Bergamot and danger.
Emilia sat up slowly, rubbing her face like she could erase the night before.
She couldn't.
She should've stopped herself. Should've walked away the moment she saw him. Instead, she let the heat win. Let curiosity drag her under like a riptide. And now—
Now she had to face them.
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FBI Field Office – Lower Manhattan
The office was all glass, concrete, and barely masked exhaustion. Emilia walked in like nothing was wrong, hair pulled back, blouse tucked sharp, the agent mask locked in place.
Agent Thomas Keene, her supervisor, greeted her with a curt nod. "You're late."
"Traffic."
He narrowed his eyes but let it go. "We got a hit. Surveillance picked up Moretti at the Rosemont Club three nights ago—same time the West Side hit went down. Think he was laying groundwork?"
Emilia stepped into the war room, eyes scanning the case board. Luca's photo stared back at her from the center, a cold, calculated gaze frozen in time.
She felt it again—his hands, his mouth, the way he'd looked at her like she was a secret he wanted to unravel slowly.
Get a grip, Hart.
Keene tossed a folder on the table. "Informant says there's movement inside Moretti's crew. Possible leak. We need someone close."
Emilia looked up, heart crawling into her throat.
"We want you to go deeper," he said. "He trusts women more than he trusts his own men. You got a shot."
She hesitated for a fraction too long. "You're saying… seduce him?"
"I'm saying make him believe in you. However that happens is your call."
He walked away without waiting for her answer.
Emilia stared at the photo on the board, her stomach tightening.
Too late, she thought bitterly.
He already did.
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5. Ghosts & Smoke
Luca's POV – Same Morning
Luca Moretti didn't do sleepovers.
He especially didn't do mornings-after that involved sitting in the driver's seat of his matte-black Maserati, parked three blocks from the hotel, replaying the night like a damn rookie.
He gripped the steering wheel tighter.
She'd been unexpected. Brazen. Smart. Not the kind of woman you meet in a dive bar, let alone take to bed without checking for a wire. And yet… he had.
He wasn't stupid. She'd told him no names, and he hadn't asked. It was supposed to be simple.
It wasn't.
There was something about the way she had looked at him—like she saw through him and didn't flinch. Like she knew who he was… and came closer anyway.
Luca hated mirrors. He preferred shadows, things he could control. But this woman—whoever she was—felt like both.
And now, she was gone. Or rather, he was. He'd left before she woke, careful not to leave a trace behind. Standard procedure. Emotional detachment, surgical precision.
Still, as he drove downtown, her face stayed with him. The tilt of her head. That last look before he kissed her.
What the hell's wrong with me?
He parked inside his private garage beneath Moretti Imports and rode the elevator up to the office suite. Rafa was already waiting, pacing like a storm on a leash.
"You look like shit," Rafa said, handing him an espresso.
"You always greet your boss with compliments?" Luca grunted, sitting behind the glass desk.
"I greet him like a man who should know that Gio Mancini was spotted meeting with someone from the Delgado crew last night."
Luca's expression darkened.
"Where?"
"Dockside bar in Red Hook. No cameras. No muscle with him."
Luca's fingers drummed the desk once. Twice.
"You think he's flipping?" Rafa asked.
"I think Gio's stupid enough to believe he can play both sides and survive it."
"You want me to handle it?"
Luca shook his head. "No. Not yet. I want to know who he's talking to and why. Follow him. Quietly."
Rafa hesitated. "You okay, man? You're... off."
Luca looked out the floor-to-ceiling window, down at the city that bowed to him in the daylight and whispered about him at night.
"I'm fine," he said.
But he wasn't.
Because a woman with no name and too many secrets was still in his head.
And Luca Moretti had never let someone in without an exit plan.