Chapter Seven – The Silent Hand That Moves the World

Vincenzo stood by the window of his study, the dim glow of the city stretching before him like a constellation of carefully placed pieces on a board. He sipped his wine, letting the silence settle, then spoke, his voice calm yet edged with authority.

"Marco, get the investigation unit on the Man and Theo. I want to know everything—the depth of what they're hiding and who they're hiding it for. Dig deep, deeper than they ever expect. And make sure no trace of us remains."

Marco gave a firm nod. "Understood."

Vincenzo turned, the reflection of the city lights flickering in his cold, calculated gaze. "Theo?"

Theo was already a step ahead, his fingers tapping away on his burner phone. "I'll handle it. I have… Russian friends who owe me a favor. They specialize in digging into things that were never meant to be found."

A faint smirk tugged at Vincenzo's lips. "Good. Make sure they know discretion is not a request—it's a demand."

Theo chuckled. "Of course."

Vincenzo checked his watch. It was time.

---

The entrance to La Fortuna, one of the most exclusive underground casinos in Europe, was draped in luxury, yet beneath its gilded surface, power and secrecy pulsed like an unspoken language. This was a place where kings and ghosts of the underworld played in shadows, where alliances were forged, and betrayals were carved into history with the flick of a wrist.

Vincenzo walked in alone. A sign of respect.

The Moretti code had been used in the invitation, and that meant whoever was waiting for him was either someone worthy or someone who thought themselves worthy. Either way, he would not be caught unprepared.

His sharp gaze scanned the casino floor—seemingly ordinary people gambling, drinking, and exchanging pleasantries. But Vincenzo knew better. Nothing in this room was ordinary. These were operatives, men and women whose professions lay in deception, influence, and control.

A soft clink of glass. A calculated whisper. A glance that lasted a second too long. Signs of those who thought they were unseen.

Vincenzo took a seat at a high-stakes table, placing a single Moretti-black casino chip on the felt.

From the corner of his eye, he saw him—an old man with silver hair, seated three tables away, watching him.

The test had begun.

---

The old man stood, approached Vincenzo's table, and took a seat across from him. His hands, though weathered, were steady. His eyes held experience, calculation.

"Do you know what separates a great leader from a fool?" the old man asked, shuffling the deck of cards with unsettling ease.

Vincenzo leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. "A fool trusts the wrong people. A great leader makes the wrong people trust him."

A flicker of amusement in the old man's eyes. He slid a single card face-down toward Vincenzo. "You walk in here alone, knowing nothing of who invited you. That is either bold or foolish."

Vincenzo picked up the card, turning it over lazily. The Ace of Spades. The card of death.

"I know who you are," Vincenzo said coolly, placing the card back down. "You just don't know how much I already know."

The old man's hand stilled. The air around them thickened.

Then—a subtle shift.

A shadow moved across the second floor. A man adjusting his cufflink near the bar. A woman setting down her wine glass precisely at the ten-second mark.

Vincenzo smiled faintly. The room had just activated.

---

The old man exhaled through his nose, impressed but not yet convinced. "And if I were to say that trust is a game you have not yet mastered?"

Vincenzo's expression darkened, but his voice remained lethal in its calmness.

"Trust is a game I do not play." He leaned forward slightly. "I make the rules. And those who break them?"

A single red dot appeared on the forehead of the man adjusting his cufflink.

Another.

And another.

Within seconds, sniper dots marked five key figures in the room—the old man's hidden pieces, now completely exposed.

The woman with the wine glass stiffened. The man at the bar stopped mid-sip. The old man himself did not flinch, but something in his eyes shifted.

Vincenzo's voice was a whisper, yet it carried the weight of a death sentence.

"If you test me again, I will not need my snipers. I will end you with a whisper."

The silence was deafening.

Then, a slow clap.

The old man chuckled, shaking his head. "So it's true. You are ready."

He gestured to the waiters. Within seconds, the entire dynamic of the room shifted. The tables were cleared, a round table was formed, and the unwanted guests were quietly ushered away.

The seven figures remained.

As they took their seats, a man with sharp eyes and an air of silence spoke first. "Gabriel Moreau," he said. "Intelligence operations. I see what others miss."

Beside him, a woman with a knowing smirk ran her fingers along the rim of a wine glass. "Elena Volkova. Cyber warfare, digital manipulation. The world moves at my keystroke."

Next, a man with the aura of an untouchable financial empire leaned forward. "Salvatore Bianchi. Money is not power—it is the hand that moves it."

A smooth voice followed, belonging to a man whose presence felt eerily familiar. "Victor Stein. Political architect. Governments rise and fall under my influence."

The next introduction was made with quiet confidence. "Alessandro Rossi. Media and narrative control. If history is written, I ensure the ink flows in our favor."

A man whose stance carried the weight of military experience nodded. "Klaus Dietrich. I oversee the movements of war."

Finally, the last of them, a man with the cold demeanor of a merchant of death, placed a hand on the table. "Isaac DuPont. Weapons, technology, and innovation. If it kills, I sell it."

Vincenzo exhaled slowly, processing the weight of the revelation. His father had always known.

"You were never abandoned," Gabriel Moreau admitted. "We were following your father's orders. To help you only when we knew you were ready."

The old man finally spoke again, pulling a small black box from his coat.

"A gift, from your father," he said, sliding it across the table. "It will help you in your current troubles."

Vincenzo opened the box.

Inside, a golden signet ring rested against black velvet—the Moretti crest, carved in obsidian.

A symbol of absolute authority.

He slipped it onto his finger. The weight felt right. The future had just changed.

"Forza Moretti," the old man murmured.

The others echoed it, sealing the moment.

Vincenzo lifted his glass.

"Forza Moretti."

And just like that, the game had begun.