⚠️ This chapter contains suspense, mafia-related tension, and mature emotional themes.
The smell of stale coffee and ink filled the newsroom—just the way Ariella Cruz liked it. Chaos meant something big was brewing, and she had a nose for stories that burned.
Ariella leaned back in her chair, eyes locked on the grainy photo pinned to her corkboard. A man in a sharp black suit stood half-shielded by shadows, the glint of a silver watch catching light as he stepped out of a bulletproof black SUV.
No name. No records. No interviews. Just whispers.
They called him The Prince.
And every time someone got close enough to ask questions… they vanished.
She tapped her pen against her lips, narrowing her eyes at the picture. The tip of her pen left an accidental ink blot on the corner of the man's image—right over his heart.
"Moretti," she whispered. "Let's see what secrets you're hiding."
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Across the city, Dante Moretti adjusted the cuffs of his suit as he stepped into his father's private office, the buzz of conversation fading behind the thick mahogany doors.
"Another nosy reporter sniffing around," Luca, the consigliere, said coolly. "Name's Ariella Cruz. Works for The Chronicle. She's not backing down."
Dante's expression didn't flicker. His voice was low, ice smooth.
"Then we give her a reason to."
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> Ariella's fingers flew across the keyboard, pulling up property records, business filings, offshore accounts—anything that could tie the Moretti name to the trail of violence she'd been chasing for months.
But this wasn't just about a story anymore.
Three weeks ago, her source—an accountant with nervous eyes and shaky hands—had dropped dead of an "accidental overdose." He had given her one name before he died: Dante.
And Ariella never let sleeping monsters lie.
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Later that night, in a dim alley behind her apartment, she felt it. That prickling sense of being watched. Her hand went to the small pepper spray in her coat pocket.
"Looking for something, Miss Cruz?"
The voice behind her was calm. Smooth like silk over a knife.
She turned—fast—and there he was.
The man in the black suit.
Closer now. Real. Alive. Dangerous.
Dante Moretti.
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To be continued…