Mafiaso Littile Doll ༉
Prologue
|| 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝓂𝓎 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜𝓍𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 🦢༉ ||
The night was stitched in velvet silence, but silence in this city was never innocence—it was an omen. Somewhere between the breath of the moon and the rustle of shadows, a story was already bleeding, though none dared name it.
They called her doll. Fragile porcelain set on the edge of ruin, with eyes that carried the fracture of broken mirrors. Yet porcelain is deceptive—it doesn’t bend, it shatters, and when it does, it cuts deeper than steel. She stood where innocence met temptation, caught between the tremor of escape and the intoxication of captivity.
And he—he was not a man, but the architecture of sin itself. The empire he built was not brick and mortar, but silence and blood. A crown sharpened by knives, a throne carved from bone. They said the devil wrote his name in smoke, but when he touched her, he wrote it in fire.
The world did not conspire to bring them together—it conspired to keep them apart. But conspiracies are frail when faced with obsession. One glance had already been enough to tie her to him like a thread around the throat: delicate, invisible, yet unbreakable.
There are stories that begin with love, others with war.
Theirs began with theft.
Not the theft of gold, nor of power—something more venomous.
He stole her breath, her fear, her silence… and she, unknowingly, stole the one thing he swore no one would ever touch.
And in the dim-lit corridors where betrayal slithered like perfume, where loyalty had the price of blood, and where every whisper carried a blade, their tale began—not with a beginning, but with a wound.
For every doll is bound to break.
And every king is bound to bleed.
|| 𝓜𝓪𝓯𝓲𝓪𝓼𝓸 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝓵𝓵 🥀༉ ||
Chapter One – The Club And The Doll
Not merely the glass towers piercing the desert sky, nor the gold-bellied streets that glittered at dawn—but the underworld carved beneath it.
Name—Adrian Moretti—was not whispered, it was feared. Mafia King. CEO of DiOv. Founder of DiOv DeDiVe.
And in both realms, the one painted by neon lights above and the one drenched in shadows below, he reigned without rival.
Tonight, however, he was off the throne.
Tonight, he would indulge.
The car purred like a predator under his hand as it slid into the underground artery leading toward the RedVelvet Club—the richest, most forbidden den in the city. RedVelvet was more than a club;
It was a kingdom of decadence, carved into the bones of Dubai itself, and beneath it beat the heart of sins money alone could never buy.
But before the club, before the music, before the blood-soaked whiskey could kiss his lips—he saw.
At the bank—attached conveniently to the club’s exterior like a parasite on the veins of sin—stood a figure. Pale, lit by the cold silver wash of moonlight. He slowed, though no reason existed for him to do so. His black-red gaze locked, arrested, trapped.
Adrian Moretti (33) (Ml)
POV: I look up from the steering wheel. My chest constricts. Green—green like spring knives—meets my black-red. My pulse halts. My body does not.
Adrian Moretti (33) (Ml)
Cheeks painted with winter’s natural flush. Lips—God, lips like cherries bruised by desire, soft and edible, adorned with a faint black diamond piercing glinting like a secret meant only for me. And there—just at the bow of her mouth—rests a small mole, delicate, sinful, perfect.
Adrian Moretti (33) (Ml)
The longer I stare, the more her skin becomes the night’s canvas—moonlit ivory holding the frozen breath of winter. And those lips, those strawberry-biteable lips—how dare they exist without being ruined by me?
Adrian Moretti (33) (Ml)
Desired. Obsessed. Intoxicated. Addicted.
It rises in me—like a flood breaking stone—to my chest, to my heart, to every nerve demanding hers.
She shifts. Looks back to her phone. Sighs.
Ayesha rathor (Fl)
"Not damn the locked bank should be,"
She mutters softly, unaware of the predator’s gaze that stalks her. The foreign accent bends her words, each syllable dripping unintentional sweetness.
Japan, he realizes. Not from here. Too fragile for Dubai’s veins of gold and gunpowder. She does not belong. Yet—she’s already mine.
Her voice lingers, a melody threaded with frustration.
Ayesha rathor (Fl)
"In Dubai, like country… I am coming from Japan. And unfortunately, the online payment is not working for some days in this place because of fest."
Adrian’s hand tightens on the steering wheel.
The RedVelvet Club still waits. But desire waits for no man.
And the doll—his doll—has just walked into his kingdom without knowing the price of her step.
The screen’s glow lit her features as she sighed, fingers dancing across her phone with growing frustration. Then a name appeared on the digital receipt she struggled to refresh, and Adrian’s eyes drank it in.
Not just a name—an incantation. He whispered it in his mind, rolling it like wine against his tongue. Ayesha. Sweet, simple, dangerous. Rathor. Royalty somewhere in blood, though exile wrapped around her shoulders like an invisible veil.
Japan, he remembered. She had said it. The way she pronounced the word wasn’t borrowed, it was owned.
And then it slid together—pieces forming the quiet mosaic of her life.
Her parents in India, rooted where the soil still remembered them.
Her grandmother—dadi, he recalled the word, old and affectionate—living with her in Japan. Ayesha was tethered between worlds, carrying none fully, belonging everywhere yet nowhere.
To him, it was perfection.
Because people caught between worlds were easiest to steal.
They never knew where home was.
Until someone told them.
And Adrian Moretti had already decided—home would be him.
|| 𝓜𝓪𝓯𝓲𝓪𝓼𝓸 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝓵𝓵 🥀༉ ||
|| 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝓂𝓎 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜𝓍𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 🦢༉ ||
Chapter Two – The Wolf’s House
𝓒𝓱𝓪𝓹𝓽𝓮𝓻 𝓣𝔀𝓸 – 𝓣𝓱𝓮 𝓦𝓸𝓵𝓯’𝓼 𝓗𝓸𝓾𝓼𝓮
The Moretti estate was less of a home and more of a fortress, stitched into Dubai’s gold-lined streets like a secret wound. It was not merely walls and marble; it was the pulse of generations, a kingdom built not by kings but by wolves. And tonight, as Azlan crossed its gates, every wolf was gathered.
Adrian Moretti—the first son, the king, the name that ruled boardrooms and battlefields alike. His shadow stretched over all of them, though his lips barely curved into smiles. Yet family was both his crown and his curse.
Adrian Moretti walked into its heart with the quiet weight of a man who did not need to declare power—his silence was enough. His family was already gathered, every wolf at the table, every mask polished for supper.
Antonio Moretti (62) – Ml father
Antonio Moretti (62) – Adrian’s father.
Once the empire’s spine, now brittle with age and indulgence. His glass of wine shook faintly in his hand, but his eyes burned with old hunger. He admired Adrian’s ruthlessness, yet envy gnawed at him like a slow disease. His loyalty belonged to the Moretti name—but not always to the son who eclipsed him.
Isabella Moretti (58) – Ml mother
Isabella Moretti (58) – Adrian’s mother.
The iron rose of the family. Elegant, poised, her words cut sharper than any blade. She did not believe in love, only in legacy. To her, Adrian was not just her son—he was her weapon, her crown, her vindication.
Adrian’s siblings were not born equally, but all were forged in fire.
Marco Moretti (22) – ML youngest brothe
Marco Moretti (22) – Adrian’s youngest blood brother.
Reckless, impulsive, with a heart too soft for the world he lived in. He adored Adrian, saw him as both mentor and executioner. Loyal? Yes. But naïve loyalty breaks easiest. Adrian knew Marco’s greatest weakness was the innocence he refused to kill.
The Adoptive Four Wolves:
Rafael Moretti (31)—Ml adoptive brother
Rafael (31) – The strategist.
Adopted at 15 from Spain. His loyalty to Adrian was carved in stone. He spoke little, calculated everything, and saw betrayals before they happened.
Zayn Moretti (29)—Ml adoptive brother
Zayn (29) – The enforcer.
Half-Pakistani, half-Russian. Fire in his blood, violence in his veins. Loyal—until rage burned reason away. If betrayal ever came, it would be in flames, not whispers.
Luciano Moretti (27)—Ml adoptive brother
Luciano (27) – The charmer.
Italian-born, abandoned at 12, raised under Antonio’s roof but devoted to Adrian. Women, wine, and laughter hid his duplicity. He loved Adrian, but temptation was his true mistress.
Damien Moretti (25)—Ml adoptive brother
Damien (25) – The shadow.
Found in London’s gutters, raised by Adrian himself. Silent, precise, loyal beyond question. If Adrian was king, Damien was his executioner.
salvatore (50)
Salvatore (50) – Antonio’s younger brother. Silk-suited, snake-hearted. He smiled too much, but every smile carried venom. His loyalty was a mask; his ambition bled through the cracks.
Francesca (45)
Francesca (45) – Salvatore’s wife. Proud, calculating, more dangerous in silence than in speech. Her devotion was to her husband’s schemes, never to Adrian’s crown.
Matteo (23)
Matteo (23) – Their son. A mirror to Marco, but darker. Arrogant, envious, desperate to prove himself more than a cousin. Rivalry burned in his eyes every time Adrian’s name was spoken.
Gianna (21)
Gianna (21) – Their daughter. Beauty laced with ambition. She looked at Adrian with the innocence of a sister but the hunger of a serpent. Her loyalty was to her own survival.
Don Enrico (84)
Don Enrico (84) – Adrian’s grandfather. The wolf who built the first brick of the empire. His voice still commanded respect; his eyes still measured worth. He saw Adrian not as heir, but as the perfected version of himself.
Lucia (80)
Lucia (80) – The grandmother. Gentle voice, iron heart. She loved Adrian with the softness of blood, but in her silence, she feared the monster she helped create.
At the head of the long mahogany table, Adrian sat—not Antonio, not Enrico. Him.
Conversation flowed like wine, but tension pulsed beneath every syllable. Marco laughed too loud at a cousin’s jest. Matteo sneered, a shadow of rivalry flickering in his smirk. Rafael leaned back, eyes sharp, analyzing everyone. Zayn drained his glass, impatient with chatter. Luciano teased a maid, smile smooth as silk. Damien’s silence weighed heavier than words—watching, listening, waiting.
Francesca’s glance lingered too long, sharp with judgment. Salvatore whispered in her ear, smile fixed but eyes black with calculation. Antonio lifted his glass toward Adrian with a look that was neither blessing nor curse, only reminder. Isabella? She sat like a queen who had birthed a king.
And Enrico, the old wolf, leaned on his cane, eyes locked on Adrian with the cruel delight of legacy fulfilled.
In that room, loyalty was not a bond—it was a game.
Every wolf licked wounds, but every wolf could also tear flesh.
Adrian lifted his glass, his smirk carved in shadow.
Adrian Moretti (33) (Ml)
"Family," he thought. "They either feed you, or they starve you. But in the end, they always eat you."
|| 𝓜𝓪𝓯𝓲𝓪𝓼𝓸 𝓵𝓲𝓽𝓽𝓲𝓵𝓮 𝓭𝓸𝓵𝓵 🥀༉ ||
|| 𝓈𝓉𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝓎𝑜𝓊, 𝓂𝓎 𝒾𝓃𝓉𝑜𝓍𝒾𝒸𝒶𝓉𝒾𝑜𝓃 🦢༉ ||
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