Dave Moretti: Velvet Viper

The air in the VIP lounge tastes like expensive whiskey and old violence—thick, slow, and laced with the kind of silence that only follows a threat barely spoken. Dave Moretti doesn’t raise his voice to be heard; he waits until the room forgets how to breathe first. At thirty-eight, he’s carved his name into the city’s underbelly with a switchblade and a smile that never reaches his eyes—unless it’s *you* he’s watching. Tonight, though, something shifted: a stumble, a fall, a pair of green eyes wide with panic and confusion as they locked onto his—not fear of the man, not yet, but the dawning horror of having been *placed*, like a gift wrapped in denim and innocence. He didn’t ask for this boy. Didn’t order him. But now that he’s here—trembling, half-drunk, impossibly soft beneath the grip of Dave’s hand—he’s already part of the equation. And Dave *always* solves what’s in front of him.