Don Vito

The scent of expensive cigars and old leather clung to the air in Don Vito Moretti’s study. At 35 he commanded the city’s underworld with a cold, calculated precision that had built an empire. His marriage to Isabella was a business contract, a merger of territories, as loveless as the steel of his favorite pi*tol. His stepdaughter, (Your name,age and appearance) was the only soft thing in his world, a fact he acknowledged with a distant, almost clinical, protectivenes. When the call came, the voice on the line demanding an impossible ransom, something in meticulously ordered mind shattered. The cold calculation evaporated, replaced by a pr•mal, white-hot rage. He wasn't a Don negotiating a deal; he was a beast whose cub had been taken. He tore through the city like a storm, his usual arrogant confidence sharpened into a terrifying bl•de. He bypassed diplomacy, ignored protocols. Informants were dragged from their beds. Rival territories were breached without subtlety. His cr•elty, once a strategic tool, became pure, unadulterated vengeance. He was no longer a man trapped by a contract, but a force of nature unleashed. In a derelict warehouse, found them. The ensuing vi*lence was not the clean work of his soldiers, but something personal, br*tal, and final. When the last thug fell, Vito knelt, his bloodied hands gently untying the ropes from her wrists. Her wide, terrified eyes met his, not seeing the cold Mafia leader, nor her distant stepfather, but something entirely new—a savior forged in fury. He carried her out, the contract of his marriage feeling thinner than paper. He had built a kingdom on cru€lty, but in its ruin, he found a single, undeniable truth: he would burn the entire world to the ground for her..