His Crimson Obsession

chapter three — Gala night

Gabriella's POV

The morning sunlight leaked through the faded curtains of our tiny apartment, pale stripes crawling across the floorboards. I hated mornings like this—too quiet, too heavy. My alarm had been ringing for ten minutes before I finally forced myself out of bed. Dad was already up; I could smell the faint, bitter trace of his medicine mixed with coffee.

“Morning, Dad,” I said, forcing a smile as I stepped into the kitchen. He looked up from his cup, face thinner than I remembered. His illness had carved pieces out of him that I wished I could stitch back together.

“You’ve got work today?” he asked, voice rough but gentle.

I nodded. “Double shift. It should cover the bills this week.”

He frowned, guilt flickering across his eyes—the kind of guilt that stabbed deeper than any blade. For a second, I wanted to scream at the universe. He was the one sick, yet he was the one looking guilty—as if being ill was a crime. The knot in my throat burned, but I swallowed it. If I broke, we’d both break.

I quickly turned away, shoving bread into the toaster before he could apologize. He didn’t need to. None of this was his fault.

My life had narrowed to two things: keeping him alive and keeping us afloat. Dreams didn’t matter anymore. Friends drifted away once they realized I was never free to go out, never free to laugh the way I used to. My world was schedules, bills, and the fear of losing him.

Seven years ago, my dad had been scammed out of everything—our savings, our house, his dignity. He never recovered, not fully.

I stared at the cracked ceramic mug in my hands, steam curling from the instant coffee. Bitter. Cheap. But it kept me awake. Architecture textbooks sat stacked in the corner of the room, dusty, untouched, relics of a life I almost had. Dad followed my gaze.

“You know, you can still go to college,” he said.

I knelt beside him. “Dad, we’ve gone over this. If I go to college, who will look after you?” I caressed his cheek.

“I’ll be fine, and I can work to help provide—” His words broke into a cough. I rushed to grab him water.

“Dad, please. Nothing is more important than you. College can wait.” I forced a smile to reassure him. The words tasted like ash. Every time I said them, a piece of me shriveled. But it was the truth. Dreams didn’t pay hospital bills. My degree could wait—his life couldn’t.

“I’m sorry for everything, love,” he whispered, voice breaking.

I cupped his face. “Dad, it’s too early in the morning to be sentimental. You have nothing to be sorry for. The world should be sorry to you.”

I stood, brushing his hair back. “I have to shower and head to work, but don’t forget to take your medicine, okay?” He nodded, wiping his tears.

Cafe:

At work, the café buzzed with the clatter of cups and low hum of conversations. I pasted on my practiced smile and took orders, letting the rhythm numb me. Still, the weight of everything pressed at the back of my mind—rent, overdue hospital bills, the uncertainty of tomorrow.

That’s when Lisa, one of the waitress and my friend, cornered me in the breakroom. She always had a way of making things sound tempting, like the devil offering an apple.

“There’s this gig,” she said, tossing her red curls over her shoulder. “One night only. Pays triple what you’d make here in a week.”

I blinked. “What kind of gig?”

“Gala. Rich people, champagne, glittering chandeliers. They need extra hands to serve. Classy place, nothing shady.”

My chest tightened. Triple pay. That was the kind of money that could erase two overdue bills in one go.

Lisa grinned at my hesitation. “I already put your name down. Trust me, Gaby, it’s easy money. You’ll be dressed up, smile, pour wine, that’s it.”

I pulled in a slow breath and nodded. “Alright. I’ll do it.” Even as the words left my mouth, my stomach knotted. Triple pay sounded too good, too easy. But when your whole life is sinking, you grab at anything that floats—even if it’s a blade.

Her smile widened like she’d won a bet.

“Great. Here’s the address. The uniform’s in your locker. See you there.” She handed me a slip of paper.

“Thanks, Lisa.”

“Sure. What are girlfriends for?” she winked, sauntering off.

When I opened my locker, I found the uniform: a crisp white shirt and black pants. Lisa really knew how to make me do her bidding.

– – –

On the ride over, I watched the streets change. Cracked sidewalks and flickering neon gave way to polished stone and glowing iron gates. By the time we reached the mansion, it felt like I’d crossed into another world—one I had no passport for.

The cab dropped me at the gate of a mansion so lavish it screamed elite. Bulked-up men with guns stood guard everywhere. What the hell? Was the president living here?

At security, one of the guards glared daggers at me. I shot the look right back.

“What are you looking at?” he growled—not a question, a threat.

I tilted my head, feigning innocence. “I’m not looking at you. If anything, you were staring at me. Something on my face?”

His eyes narrowed.

Lisa rushed to my side. “Gaby, you’re here!” She grit her teeth at me before flashing the guard a sugary smile. “Sorry about my friend. She means no trouble. Right, Gaby?”

The guard looked between us, then finally nodded and let us through.

“Why would you pick a fight with him? What if he didn’t let you in?” Lisa hissed.

“He started it.”

She groaned. “Whatever. Come on, the supervisor’s about to brief us.”

She dragged me down a hallway into a room where waiters and waitresses stood in single file. We joined the line just as the supervisor walked in—a chubby woman with a mole planted awkwardly on her nose.

“Be polite. Smile. No chit-chatting with the guests. Act like a ghost—seen, not heard. Every conversation you hear tonight follows you to the grave. And lastly—if you want to make it out alive, do not provoke the guests. These people are capable of making you disappear without a trace.” Her eyes swept the room like a warning shot. “Now get to work.”

Everyone scrambled for trays. Lisa caught my wrist.

“Gaby, please be careful.”

“It’s fine, Lisa. This isn’t my first waitressing gig.”

“No, you don’t get it.” Her voice shook. “I overheard the others whispering. This gala… it’s hosted by a mafia. Not just any mafia—the most feared one in all of Italy.”

My stomach dropped. “What the f**k? Since when did mafias host gala”

“I swear I didn’t know. I never would’ve signed us up if I had. Please, just… don’t pick a fight. Stay invisible.”

“Smile, sure. But if anyone thinks they can grab my ass just because they’re mafia, I’ll make sure they drink their champagne through a straw for the rest of their lives,” I muttered.

“Gabriella…” she sighed, rubbing her temple.

I flashed her my brightest, fakest grin. “Relax. I’ll behave… mostly.”

The gala was breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers spilled light across tables draped in silk. The air reeked of money and power. Everywhere I looked, eyes gleamed like knives. Laughter was too sharp, smiles too polished. It didn’t feel like a party—it felt like a masquerade where everyone knew the rules but me.

Men in tailored suits and women in gowns that cost more than my yearly rent glided around, their noses tilted toward the ceiling. To them, waitresses like me were part of the wallpaper.

I balanced my tray, weaving through the glittering crowd. Most ignored me, which was fine. Better invisible than patronized.

Scanning the room, I searched for the infamous mafia boss. I spotted him in the corner, arms draped around two blondes. My lips twisted in disappointment. I’d expected a middle-aged powerhouse or some brooding kingpin—not a fat old geezer.

The night went smoothly at first. I served spoiled rich kids and men who’d never lifted more than a pen in their lives. Then, of course, it happened.

A woman stormed straight into me. My tray toppled, champagne soaking her perfect gown.

“You f*****g b***h!” she shrieked.

Heat surged through me. I wanted to snap back, but Lisa’s warning echoed in my head. “I’m sorry, ma’am—it was an accident.”

“Accident?” she spat. “You ruined my dress, you lowlife! Do you even know how much this costs?”

“Ma’am, you walked into me,” I said, my patience fraying. “You saw me coming. You did it on purpose.”

Her face twisted in rage. She shoved me hard into a champagne fountain. The crowd gasped as she poured wine over my head. Liquid dripped down my cheeks, cold and humiliating. I stood there frozen for a heartbeat, the sticky sweetness sliding down my skin. The sting wasn’t just from the wine—it was from every mocking gaze fixed on me, every whisper curling through the air. Heat flushed my cheeks until it felt like my skin was on fire.

Something inside me snapped.

I shot up and slapped her across the face. Hard.

“Try that again, and I’ll break the other side of your face.” My voice was sharp enough to cut glass.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

“You crazy b***h!” she screamed.

“Say another word, and I’ll do worse.”

The room buzzed with whispers.

“You know what? I’m out of here.” I smirked, turning to leave.

But before I reached the door, guards grabbed me by the arms.

“Get your hands off me!” I snarled, but their grip only tightened.

They dragged me toward the center of the ballroom. I Panicked.

Then, a voice cut through the noise—low, commanding, and impossibly calm. The sound rolled through the ballroom like thunder, silencing the storm of whispers. My pulse stuttered, then raced, every nerve in my body lighting up as though it had been waiting for that voice all along.

“Let her go.”

The entire room froze. Heads turned. My eyes locked onto a pair of sharp, ice-blue eyes gleaming from the shadows. The kind of gaze that didn’t just look at you—it claimed you.