The Mafia King's Obsession

The smell of burning toast was what woke me. At first, I thought I was dreaming. Then came the unmistakable sound of Aunt Clara muttering under her breath, followed by the loud clang of a pan hitting the kitchen floor. I groaned and pulled my blanket over my head. Six more minutes. Maybe seven. A sharp knock rattled my bedroom door. "Isabella." I pretended not to hear it. "Isabella Hart." Still nothing. The door swung open. I peeked out from beneath my blanket. Aunt Clara stood in the doorway with one hand on her hip and a wooden spoon in the other. I immediately sat up. Experience had taught me that the spoon wasn't merely decorative. "Good morning," I said. Her eyes narrowed. "You were awake." "I became awake." "Five seconds ago." "Details." A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "There are people your age who wake up before sunrise and start their day productively." "There are also people my age who inherit private islands." "Life isn't fair." She laughed despite herself. The sound warmed something inside me. It always did. For as long as I could remember, Aunt Clara's laughter had been the soundtrack of my life. Even during the hardest years. Especially during the hardest years. After my parents died, there had been days when I thought the world would never feel normal again. Days when grief sat on my chest like a weight I couldn't escape. But somehow, Aunt Clara had carried both of us through it. One day at a time. One smile at a time. One sacrifice at a time. She never complained. Not once. Even when she worked double shifts. Even when bills piled up. Even when exhaustion darkened the circles beneath her eyes. She simply kept going. For me. Which was why I hated disappointing her. "You're thinking too much again," she said. I blinked. "What?" "You get that look." "What look?" "The one where your eyebrows do strange things." I touched my forehead. "My eyebrows are perfectly normal." "Debatable." I laughed. Aunt Clara pointed toward the hallway. "Bathroom. Now." "Yes, ma'am." Twenty minutes later, I entered the kitchen dressed for work. The apartment wasn't large. Two bedrooms. One bathroom. A tiny kitchen. A living room that somehow doubled as a storage space whenever necessary. The wallpaper was peeling near the ceiling. The refrigerator made noises that sounded mildly threatening. The dining chairs didn't match. But it was home. And home was precious. The smell of coffee drifted through the room. I closed my eyes and inhaled dramatically. "Happiness." Aunt Clara rolled her eyes. "It's coffee." "It's magical coffee." "It's instant coffee." I gasped. "Don't destroy the illusion." She laughed again. I smiled. Moments like these felt ordinary. At the time, I didn't realize how much I would miss ordinary. Because sometimes life changes so quickly that you don't recognize the moment before everything shifts. The moment before the storm arrives. And if there was one thing I would eventually learn, it was this: Storms don't ask permission before destroying your peace. They simply arrive. And mine was already on its way. I just didn't know it yet. I sat at the table and reached for my coffee. The warmth seeped into my hands. Outside the kitchen window, the city was beginning to wake. Cars filled the streets. People hurried toward jobs they loved. Or hated. Probably mostly hated. Everyone seemed to be rushing somewhere. Chasing something. Success. Money. Dreams. I understood that feeling. Because I was chasing something too. A future. A career. A chance to become the journalist I had always dreamed of being. The problem was that dreams and reality weren't always friends. And lately, reality had been winning. Aunt Clara set a plate in front of me. Eggs. Toast. The non-burnt version. A miracle. "Eat." "I'm not hungry." She gave me a look. I picked up my fork immediately. Some battles weren't worth fighting. Especially before coffee. "How's work?" she asked. There it was. The question I had been avoiding. I shrugged. "It's fine." She raised an eyebrow. "It's not fine." I sighed. "No." "What happened?" I stared down at my breakfast. How could I explain it? How could I explain the frustration of feeling stuck? The exhaustion of watching opportunities pass by? The fear that maybe I wasn't as talented as I'd always believed? "I feel invisible," I admitted quietly. Aunt Clara's expression softened. And for the first time that morning, I said aloud the fear I usually kept hidden. "I'm starting to wonder if anyone will ever notice what I can do." Aunt Clara didn't answer immediately. She never rushed conversations that mattered. Instead, she sat down across from me and wrapped both hands around her coffee mug. For a moment, neither of us spoke. The silence wasn't uncomfortable. It rarely was between us. It was simply the kind of silence shared by people who knew each other well enough not to fill every second with words. Finally, she sighed. "Do you know what I see when I look at you?" I groaned. "A motivational speech is coming, isn't it?" "Don't interrupt." I smiled despite myself. "Sorry." "No, you're not." She wasn't wrong. Aunt Clara leaned forward slightly. "I see a young woman who works harder than anyone I know." I opened my mouth. She pointed a finger at me. "Still not finished." I closed it again. Satisfied, she continued. "I see someone who refuses to quit even when things don't go her way." Her voice softened. "I see a girl who lost her parents far too young and somehow grew into a woman they would be proud of." My throat tightened. I looked down at my plate. The mention of my parents still hurt. Not as sharply as it once had. But grief never truly disappeared. It simply changed shape. Some days it sat quietly in the background. Other days it appeared without warning. A song. A photograph. A memory. And suddenly they were gone all over again. "I miss them too," Aunt Clara said softly. I looked up. Her eyes glistened with emotion. For a second, I remembered that she hadn't only lost her sister that day. She had lost family too. The accident hadn't shattered only my world. It had shattered hers. "I'm sorry," I whispered. She shook her head. "Don't be." A sad smile touched her lips. "Your mother used to worry exactly like you." I laughed weakly. "Really?" "Oh, constantly." "What did she worry about?" "Everything." The answer made me laugh harder. That sounded about right. "She worried she wasn't good enough." I blinked. "What?" Aunt Clara nodded. "Before she became a teacher, she thought she'd never succeed." That surprised me. My mother had always seemed larger than life in my memories. Strong. Confident. Fearless. It was strange imagining her doubting herself. "She was wrong," Aunt Clara continued. "And so are you." Emotion lodged itself somewhere in my chest. I quickly looked away. Crying before work wasn't part of today's schedule. "Thank you," I said quietly. Aunt Clara smiled. "Anytime." A glance at the clock sent me scrambling out of my chair. "Oh no." "What?" "I'm late." "You always say that." "Because I always am." She laughed as I grabbed my bag. I kissed her cheek on my way out. "Love you." "Love you too." Then I was gone. --- The city greeted me with noise. Car horns. Traffic. Street vendors advertising breakfast specials. Construction workers shouting instructions. The familiar soundtrack of everyday life. I hurried toward the bus stop, weaving through crowds of people. Everyone looked busy. Determined. Tired. I wondered how many of them were chasing dreams that felt just out of reach. Probably more than I'd ever know. The bus arrived five minutes later. I squeezed inside and found a seat near the window. The ride to work took almost forty minutes. Normally, I spent the time scrolling through news articles. Today, I couldn't stop thinking about Aunt Clara's words. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was being impatient. Three years wasn't actually that long. At least, not in journalism. The most successful reporters spent years building their careers. Learning. Failing. Improving. Still... A part of me wanted more. I wanted my chance. The opportunity to prove that I could handle something bigger than neighborhood events and community announcements. The bus stopped at a red light. My attention drifted toward a giant digital billboard mounted above a nearby building. A familiar face stared back at me. Alessandro Moretti. The advertisement promoted a new luxury hotel opening later that year. Even from a distance, he looked impossibly polished. Dark hair. Tailored suit. Confident expression. Everything about him screamed wealth and success. The kind of success most people only dreamed about. I watched as several pedestrians stopped to look at the billboard. One woman even pulled out her phone to take a picture. I shook my head. Celebrity culture fascinated me. People acted like wealthy businessmen were movie stars. Personally, I didn't understand the obsession. Sure, Alessandro Moretti was successful. Good for him. But I couldn't imagine spending my morning photographing a billboard. The traffic light changed. The bus continued moving. A few minutes later, the image disappeared from view. And somehow, so did any thoughts of Alessandro Moretti. At least for now. --- The newsroom was already alive when I arrived. Phones rang constantly. Keyboards clicked. Conversations overlapped. Coffee cups occupied nearly every available surface. Normal. Comfortingly normal. I dropped my bag beside my desk. Before I could even sit down, Sophia appeared. "You're late." I checked my watch. "I'm two minutes early." "By your standards." "Still counts." She narrowed her eyes. "I disagree." I laughed. Sophia handed me a folder. "What's this?" "Your assignment." I opened it. A local fundraising event. My excitement immediately vanished. Sophia winced. "Yeah." "Thrilling." "I know." I sighed dramatically. "One day they're going to trust me with a real story." "Hopefully before retirement." "Thank you for your support." "You're welcome." She grinned. I rolled my eyes. Then sat down and began reviewing the file. The event itself wasn't particularly interesting. A charity fundraiser. Local sponsors. Community leaders. Nothing unusual. Nothing exciting. Nothing likely to change my career. Still, I did my job. Because that's what professionals did. Even when the assignment wasn't glamorous. Hours passed. I conducted interviews. Answered emails. Edited an article. Attended a meeting. By lunchtime, my patience was running dangerously low. Especially after watching two senior reporters celebrate landing major assignments. Again. The same people always seemed to receive the opportunities. Not that I was bitter. Okay. Maybe a little bitter. Sophia caught me staring. "You're doing it again." "What?" "Comparing yourself." I frowned. "I wasn't." "You were." "I wasn't." "You absolutely were." Unfortunately, she knew me too well. I looked away. "Maybe." Sophia's expression softened. "Your turn will come." The words sounded suspiciously familiar. Apparently everyone in my life belonged to the same motivational club. "I'm serious." "So am I." She leaned against my desk. "You're talented, Bella." Before I could respond, a voice echoed across the newsroom. "Hart." Every muscle in my body froze. Sophia immediately stepped backward. "Oh." "What?" "You're in trouble." I glared at her. She pointed toward the office overlooking the newsroom floor. David Foster stood behind the glass wall. Watching. Waiting. And judging by the expression on his face, he wanted something important. My stomach tightened. Because David Foster didn't summon reporters without a reason. And for some reason, I had a feeling my day was about to become a lot more interesting. To be continued............