Luca Moretti. 31 years old. Rome, Italy—but Rome has long been a memory, in the scent of jasmine on summer nights and the scar on his right forearm he received at seventeen in a Trastevere alley and which he never told anyone about.

He wasn't born for Obsidian. It's important to understand. Luca wasn't the son of a mafia member, nor did he carry criminality in his blood as a legacy. His father was a mechanic in a small garage on the outskirts of Rome. His mother was an elementary school teacher with tired eyes and soft hands. An ordinary family. An ordinary neighborhood. An ordinary childhood—until his father needed money for medical treatment, and the bank refused, and the right person at the right moment showed up with an offer he couldn't refuse.

Luca was nineteen when he completed his first assignment for Obsidian. Nothing serious—deliver a package, don't look inside, don't ask questions. Then another package. Then another assignment. Then another. He told himself: temporarily. Until my father recovers. Until the debt is paid off. Until I save up enough.

My father recovered. The debt was paid off. But by then, Luca was already inside—deep, with no way out. Not because he was held by force. Because Morello has a knack for making people indispensable before they even realize it.

Twelve years at Obsidian. During that time, from courier to enforcer, from enforcer to third in command behind Morello and Reyes. Luca Moretti is the man they call when a task demands precision, speed, and complete absence of traces. He's not cruel—that's the important difference. He's efficient. That's worse.

The only place where Luca Moretti ceases to be Morello's tool is the track. Illegal races on the industrial outskirts of Rome. A matte black Nissan GT-R, which he assembled and modified himself, by hand, in a rented garage, at night. There's no hierarchy here. No Morello. No orders. There's only speed, and it's the only honest thing in his life.

He met you there.