Valletta jeweller reveals living in fear after extortion threats targeting Malta’s goldsmiths

Valletta goldsmith Luke* still keeps the WhatsApp voice-note on his phone: a gravelly voice demanding €20,000 “for protection” and warning that his teenage daughter walks home past the old Opera House every afternoon. The message arrived on 12 August 2022, two weeks after he had refused to sell a €9,000 diamond cluster to a visitor who paid in thick €500 notes and asked for no receipt.

“I thought it was a sick joke,” Luke told Hot Malta, hands trembling over an espresso in a narrow Strait Street bar once frequented by British sailors. “Then the same number sent a photo of my shop shutter half-closed, taken from across the street. That’s when my blood ran cold.”

For three months the self-employed craftsman – whose family has hammered filigree ever since the Knights arrived – lived like a prisoner. He varied the route to his workshop behind the Jesuit church, installed two extra CCTV cameras and asked a cousin to tail his daughter at a distance. Sales at his boutique dropped 40 %; tourists want to linger over rose-gold pendants, not rush out fearing trouble.

The extortion racket, police believe, is part of a pattern targeting high-end jewellers in the capital and Sliema. Since 2021 at least seven independents have reported similar approaches: anonymous numbers, perfect Maltese, references to family routines. Two victims quietly paid; one closed completely and moved to Sicily. Superintendent Alexandra Mifsud, who heads the economic-crime unit, confirmed “active investigations” but said no arrests have been made.

Jewellery is woven into Malta’s DNA. From the ħnejja threading tiny beads for a bride’s għonnella to the modern ateliers crafting bespoke wedding sets, gold is not mere ornament—it is dowry, inheritance, status. In 2019 the sector generated €68 million in exports, much of it handcrafted. When artisans are squeezed, the ripples reach gem-setters in Gozo, valuers in Birkirkara, even cruise-ship hawkers packing filigree crosses into velvet pouches.

Luke’s terror resonates because Malta still cherishes the myth of the safe island. Children ride unbuckled, doors stay unlocked, village festa statues are left overnight in the street. Yet the 2022 CrimeMalta report shows a 17 % rise in protection-type extortion, mirroring Europe’s shift northward of organised clans. “We’re not talking Sicilian-style pizzo,” explains sociologist Dr Anna Calleja. “These are fast, anonymous threats leveraging data scraped from Facebook check-ins and TikTok videos. The mafia vibe without the mafia structure.”

Community reaction has been swift. After Luke spoke up on a closed Facebook group for Maltese traders, 200 jewellers formed a WhatsApp watch collective. They share suspicious numbers, pool CCTV footage and fund a private security patrol that walks the grid of cobbled lanes every evening. “It’s the old neighbourhood system rebooted for the iPhone era,” says Rebecca Bonnici, third-generation owner of a Rabat silver studio.

Tourism Minister Clayton Bartolo pledged €500,000 in grants for shops to upgrade shutters and alarm systems, while the Malta Chamber of SMEs is lobbying banks to offer zero-interest loans for safes certified to European standard EN-1143. Critics argue the measures merely treat symptoms. “We need tougher sentencing for economic extortion,” insists lawyer Jason Azzopardi, who represents two victims. “Currently the maximum is six years—laughable when you can get nine for stealing empty churches.”

Luke, thankfully, has not received a threat in eight months. His daughter now cycles to a friend’s house accompanied by a yapping Maltese terrier, and August sales rebounded after he launched a “Made in Malta” collection endorsed by influencer Sarah Zerafa. Still, the fear lingers. “Every time the phone buzzes I jump,” he admits, flipping the device face-down. “Gold can be melted and reshaped, but trust? Once dented, it’s never quite the same finish.”