A Target Marked
1526 Words
The newsroom was unusually quiet for a Thursday morning. Normally, keyboards clicked like restless rain and phones rang nonstop, but today the silence felt almost intentional like the city itself was holding its breath.
Ariana Lopez stepped through the glass doors, her satchel hanging from one shoulder, a paper cup of bitter coffee in her hand, and exhaustion written everywhere on her face. She’d barely slept after the strange incident in the alley last night, the heavy footsteps behind her, the shadow she couldn’t shake, the feeling that someone was watching.
She had told herself it was nothing. Just New York being New York.
But when she walked into her office and saw the envelope sitting neatly at the center of her desk… her heart dropped.
No name. No stamp. Just her desk, her space, and something that definitely didn’t belong.
She swallowed hard.
“Morning, Lopez,” her editor, Carl, called out from across the room. “Don’t forget the article on the recent Moretti–Cervantes street war. The deadline is tonight.”
She didn’t bother replying. Ariana’s eyes stayed glued to the envelope. A plain white rectangle that felt heavier than paper should allow.
She reached out with trembling fingers and opened it.
A single photograph slid into her hand.
One picture.
One man.
A face she recognized instantly, the same face plastered across half of her investigative board at home.
Damian Moretti.
The ruthless, cold-eyed heir of the Moretti mafia empire. The man whose name made gang members lower their voices and cross themselves. The man Ariana had spent the last six months investigating following every rumor, every lead, every whispered trail of blood.
But it wasn’t the photograph itself that made her breath hitch.
It was what was written on the back.
“Stop digging. This isn’t your story.”
Her fingers froze.
Her pulse skidded into rapid, uneven beats.
No one knew she was investigating, not even Carl. She did all her digging outside office hours, alone, using burner phones and hidden folders. She had always assumed she was careful.
Apparently not careful enough.
She reread the message three times. The handwriting was sharp, slanted, masculine, controlled, and expensive-looking. It wasn’t scribbled or rushed.
Whoever wrote it took his time.
Ariana felt a chill crawl down her spine.
She lowered herself into the chair, staring at the photograph as if it might suddenly come alive. Damian was standing in front of a black Maserati, hands slipped casually into his pockets, dressed in a tailored suit that clearly cost more than her rent. His expression was calm but dangerous, the kind of quiet confidence only men who had killed without losing sleep possessed.
Her throat tightened.
Someone had taken this picture from close range.
Too close.
She turned the photo back over and stared at the warning again.
Not your story.
But that wasn’t how journalism worked. Stories didn’t belong to anyone. The truth didn’t belong to anyone.
Still… something inside her whispered that this was no ordinary threat.
This was a promise.
The skin on her arms prickled as she forced herself to take a deep breath, reminding herself who she was. Ariana Lopez investigative journalist. Top of her class. Fearless.
Or at least… she tried to be.
“Everything okay?” a voice asked beside her.
She nearly jumped, knocking her coffee over the desk. She spun to see Jake, her coworker and occasional lunch buddy, frowning at her.
“Yeah,” she lied quickly, sweeping the photograph into her drawer. “I just didn’t sleep.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “You look like you saw a ghost.”
If only.
He shrugged and walked off. The moment he was gone, Ariana leaned back in her chair, pressing her fingers against her forehead.
This was bad.
Really bad.
Someone had been inside the newsroom. They’d found her desk. Left an envelope without being seen. That meant access, confidence, and connections.
That meant Moretti.
Damian Moretti didn’t send warnings lightly. He didn’t need to.
Ariana stared at the drawer where she’d placed the photograph.
Maybe she should stop.
Maybe she should redirect her investigation and stay alive.
But then she thought of her sisterElena.
Elena, who went missing two years ago after getting involved with a man Ariana could never identify. Elena, whose trail disappeared around the same time the Moretti family expanded its territory. Elena, whose last message had been a voice note filled with fear and broken words.
Sometimes Ariana still replayed it late at night.
“Ari… I think I made a mistake. If anything happens to me…”
She’d never finished the sentence.
And Ariana could never let it go.
She set her jaw.
She wasn’t backing down. Not for Damian Moretti or any other mafia king in this cursed city. She would find Elena, no matter what it cost her.
Even if it cost her everything.
Hours later, after forcing herself through the day with trembling hands and a pounding heart, Ariana returned home. Her small apartment was dark and quiet, her safe space, her only refuge.
At least, it used to be.
She dropped her keys into the bowl by the door and froze.
Something felt wrong.
Off.
Silent in a way her apartment never was.
Then she noticed it.
Her window.
Open.
Just slightly.
Barely an inch.
But she never left it open.
Ariana’s lungs tightened painfully. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She took a slow step backward, reaching behind her for her phone.
Before she could dial anyone, a voice spoke from the living room.
“You really should be more careful, cara mia.”
Ariana dropped her phone.
Her entire body reacted, lungs freezing, knees weakening, breath choking in her throat.
The voice was deep. Smooth. Dark like velvet dipped in danger.
She knew that voice.
She spun around.
He stepped out of the shadows slowly, confidently, owning the room as if it belonged to him.
Damian Moretti.
In the flesh.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Wearing a fitted black shirt and dark trousers, his sleeves rolled to reveal strong forearms. His hair was slightly tousled, as if the night breeze had run its fingers through it. His jaw was sharp, his expression unreadable, but his eyes…
God.
His eyes were like a storm trapped behind glasscold, intense, assessing every inch of her.
Ariana’s breath faltered.
“Howhow did you get in here?” she whispered.
His lips curved slightly, not a smile but something dangerous.
“The same way the note got to your desk.”
Her stomach flipped. “You had no right”
“I had every right,” he interrupted, stepping closer. “You’ve been investigating me.”
He didn’t ask.
He stated it.
Ariana forced herself not to back away. “I’m a journalist. That’s what we do.”
“Some stories,” he said softly, “are fatal to the people who write them.”
Her pulse hammered.
He stopped in front of me, too overwhelming, too everything. She could smell his cologne, dark and woodsy with something richer beneath it. She hated that her body reacted before her mind could protest.
“You’re scaring me,” she whispered.
“You should be scared,” he replied calmly. “But not of me.”
Her lips parted.
His gaze dropped to her mouth only for a second, but enough to make the air between them crackle with heat she didn’t want to acknowledge.
“I’m not your enemy,” Damian said. “But you’re walking into a war you don’t understand. The people you’re chasing are not men. They’re monsters. And they won’t warn you before killing you.”
“So why did you warn me?” she asked.
This time, his jaw tightened.
A flicker of somethinganger? frustration?moved across his features.
“Because you’re in danger,” he said. “Real danger. Someone marked you the moment you started digging into the Moretti–Cervantes war. Someone who wants you to be silent.”
“Are you saying someone else is threatening me?”
His eyes darkened. “I’m saying someone wants you dead.”
A cold shock ran through her body.
She opened her mouth, but Damian cut her off, voice dropping even lower.
“I can protect you,” he said. “But only if you listen. Only if you stay close.”
Ariana swallowed hard.
“And if I don’t?”
His gaze locked onto hers with a force that pinned her in place.
“Then you won’t live long enough to write your next chapter.”
A silence heavy as iron fell between them.
Ariana’s heart pounded, fear and fascination tangled like dangerous vines inside her. She wanted to run. She wanted to scream. She wanted to understand why this ruthless mafia heir looked at her as if she was the only thing in the room that mattered.
Damian leaned in, his voice a whisper of heat against her skin.
“Stop digging, Ariana Lopez.”
She didn’t answer.
She couldn’t.
And his next words buried themselves deep into her bones.
“Because from today onward, you’re a target. Marked.”
- Writer
