Chapter 4 - The Trastevere Safehouse
"I don't care who you work for," Simona snapped, her exhaustion finally giving way to a fierce, protective anger as she planted her feet firmly on the terminal floor. "I am a doctor. I saved a man’s life because it was my duty, not because I wanted to collect a bounty from a criminal organization. Now, if you'll excuse me, my son is waiting for me in Trastevere." Salvatore Moretti didn't blink. He didn't raise his voice. He simply gestured slightly with his right hand, and two of the suits stepped forward, sliding effortlessly into her path, blocking every possible route to the exit doors. "Dottoressa," Moretti said, his tone dripping with false sweetness. "You misunderstand. You are not being detained. You are being escorted. For your own safety." "Safety from whom?" Simona hissed. "From Dante Rossi? From rival factions who know that Don Gabriel was ambushed in Milan three days ago?" Moretti’s eyebrow twitched upward—the only sign that she had hit a nerve. "The Don values his privacy, Dottoressa. And he values the people who pull him back from the shadow of death. He has explicitly requested your presence at a secure location to oversee his immediate post-operative recovery. Until he is certain you are safe from collateral exposure, you will not be returning to your normal routine." "That is kidnapping!" Simona shouted, her voice echoing off the high glass ceilings of the empty terminal. "You can't just take me—" "We can," Moretti interrupted quietly, stepping close enough that she could smell the expensive sandalwood and tobacco on his coat. "And we are. Please, Dottoressa. Do not make this difficult for yourself. Or for little Marco." The blood drained completely from Simona’s face. The room tilted. Her knees nearly buckled beneath her. "What did you say?" she whispered, a primal terror seizing her chest with icy talons. "Marco," Moretti repeated, his voice softening into something truly demonic. "Five years old. Currently eating brioche at your sister Chiara’s kitchen table on Via della Scala. A charming boy. It would be a tragedy if something were to disrupt his morning routine, wouldn't it?" Simona wanted to scream, to lunge at the silver-haired monster, to tear his throat out with her bare hands. But she was a mother first. The realization that they already knew where her son was—that they could reach him in a matter of minutes—shattered her defiance into dust. She swallowed the suffocating lump of terror in her throat, her hands trembling violently as she clutched her handbag. "If you touch him," Simona whispered, her voice cracking with unshed tears, "I swear to God I will let Gabriel die on the table." Moretti smiled—a cold, humorless stretching of the lips. "Don't worry, Dottoressa. The Don does not harm those who save him. And he certainly does not harm his own blood." Before Simona could process the cryptic, terrifying weight of that final sentence, a black armored Mercedes van pulled up silently to the terminal doors. Two men opened the sliding side door, and gently but firmly, Moretti guided her inside. The doors slid shut with a heavy, final click, plunging the interior into shadow as the vehicle sped away into the Roman fog.
