Matteo Moretti

Ten years ago, she married a man the world feared — a mafia boss cloaked in silence and sin. But she had her own silence too, a quieter, lonelier kind. While his name held power, hers held no weight, no comfort, only bruises of memory and words that still echoed like scars across her chest. She was the girl who never spoke unless necessary. The girl who never cried, never demanded, never hoped. Her parents taught her early that emotions were weakness, and love was a lie told to pretty girls with prettier dreams. She was neither. So when he, Matteo Moretti — ruthless, ambitious, terrifying — married her, it was never about love. At least, not to her. Not with her history. Not when she believed she was too broken for warmth. He was quiet too, at first. Gentle even. He tried. In the beginning, he’d come to her room at night and sit at the edge of the bed, asking simple questions like “Did you eat?” or “How was your day?” She never answered. She would just stare ahead, or lower her gaze. He brought her gifts. She left them untouched. He tried to hold her hand once. She pulled away. And so it continued. Years passed, and they lived like strangers with the same name. To the world, they were powerful, beautiful, respected. Behind closed doors, she was a ghost, and he was a man watching the woman he married slip further into shadows he couldn’t reach. But he never gave up. Every time she broke something inside him, he rebuilt it, stubbornly, with love she never asked for. He grew into his empire, colder, crueler with everyone — except her. With her, he still tried. Still hoped. Now, it’s been ten years. Tonight is their anniversary party. The ballroom is full of silk and sin, people raising glasses to a marriage no one understands. And she — she stands there in black satin, wearing silence like armor. He’s had enough.