The Mafia King's Obsession

Chapter 7

The ride home felt longer than usual.

Maybe because my mind refused to stay still.

Every possibility seemed to compete for my attention.

Questions.

Expectations.

Worst-case scenarios.

Best-case scenarios.

What if I asked the wrong question?

What if I missed an important detail?

What if I embarrassed myself in front of half the city's elite?

The thoughts chased one another relentlessly.

By the time I reached the apartment building, I had exhausted myself.

"Enough," I muttered.

The elevator doors opened.

I stepped out and headed for the apartment.

The moment I walked inside, Aunt Clara looked up from the couch.

And immediately burst out laughing.

I frowned.

"That's rude."

"You look terrified."

"I am not terrified."

"You absolutely are."

I dropped my bag onto a chair.

"Maybe a little."

"A little?"

I sighed dramatically.

"Fine. A lot."

"There she is."

I pointed at her.

"Everyone keeps saying that."

"Because you're terrible at hiding your feelings."

Unfortunately, she was right.

I sank onto the couch beside her.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then Aunt Clara reached over and squeezed my hand.

"You know what your problem is?"

I narrowed my eyes.

"That sounds dangerous."

"You think too much."

"I do not."

She gave me a look.

I immediately lost the argument.

Again.

"You've already done the work."

Her voice softened.

"You've prepared."

I nodded.

"You've researched."

Another nod.

"You've earned this opportunity."

The words settled heavily inside me.

Because a part of me still struggled to believe them.

A part of me still felt like the young journalist nobody noticed.

The reporter assigned to community bake sales and local fundraisers.

The girl waiting for her chance.

Maybe tonight was proof that things were finally changing.

Maybe.

Aunt Clara stood.

"Now go get ready."

I looked toward my bedroom.

The dress hanging inside suddenly felt much more intimidating.

---

Forty-five minutes later, I stood in front of the mirror.

And barely recognized myself.

The dress wasn't extravagant.

I couldn't afford extravagant.

But it was elegant.

Dark blue.

Simple.

Classic.

The kind of dress that made me feel older than twenty-three.

More confident.

More professional.

Hopefully.

Aunt Clara appeared behind me.

For a moment, she simply stared.

Emotion flickered across her face.

"What?"

Her eyes glistened slightly.

"Nothing."

"Aunt Clara."

She smiled.

"You look beautiful."

My throat tightened unexpectedly.

Because there was something in her voice.

Pride.

The same pride she'd shown when I graduated.

The same pride she'd shown when I got my first journalism job.

The same pride she'd shown every time I achieved something important.

No matter how small.

I turned toward her.

"You really think so?"

She laughed.

"Sweetheart, half the people at that gala won't look as good as you."

I rolled my eyes.

"Biased."

"Absolutely."

That made me laugh.

The tension eased slightly.

Not completely.

But enough.

Before leaving, I hugged her tightly.

"Thank you."

"For what?"

"For everything."

Her arms tightened around me.

And for a brief moment, neither of us let go.

---

The gala was being held at one of the most luxurious hotels in the city.

The moment my taxi pulled up outside, I understood why.

The building looked like something from a movie.

Glass.

Marble.

Golden lights.

Luxury practically radiated from every surface.

My stomach flipped.

This was different from anything I'd ever experienced.

People in expensive gowns and tailored suits moved toward the entrance.

Luxury cars lined the curb.

Photographers crowded behind barriers.

Security personnel stood everywhere.

The atmosphere buzzed with energy.

I paid the driver and stepped onto the sidewalk.

Immediately, reality hit.

This was happening.

I was here.

For a second, I considered turning around.

Going home.

Pretending I had suddenly developed a mysterious illness.

Then I remembered David Foster's face.

The idea vanished instantly.

I liked being employed.

Taking a deep breath, I adjusted the press badge hanging from my neck and headed toward the entrance.

The lobby nearly stole my breath.

Crystal chandeliers hung overhead.

Soft music drifted through the air.

Elegant guests mingled beneath golden light.

Everything felt polished.

Perfect.

Like stepping into another world.

A world of wealth and influence.

A world far removed from my tiny apartment and neighborhood dinners.

For a moment, I simply stood there.

Observing.

Listening.

Taking everything in.

Then my journalist instincts kicked in.

I pulled out my notebook.

And got to work.

---

The next hour passed quickly.

I interviewed several guests.

Collected quotes.

Made observations.

Filled pages with notes.

The event was exactly what I'd expected.

Polished speeches.

Carefully rehearsed conversations.

Public displays of generosity.

Nothing unusual.

Nothing controversial.

Nothing particularly interesting.

At least not yet.

I was finishing a conversation with a city council member when the atmosphere changed.

Subtly.

But unmistakably.

A ripple moved through the crowd.

Heads turned.

Conversations paused.

Attention shifted toward the grand entrance.

Curiosity immediately sharpened inside me.

Someone important had arrived.

Very important.

I followed everyone's gaze.

And froze.

Because walking through the entrance was the man whose face I'd spent days seeing in newspapers, articles, and photographs.

Alessandro Moretti.

For a moment, the room seemed to hold its breath.

He moved through the crowd with effortless confidence.

Tall.

Dark-haired.

Impeccably dressed.

Power radiated from him in a way that had nothing to do with money.

People noticed him.

Instinctively.

Naturally.

As though attention simply followed wherever he went.

The photographs hadn't done him justice.

Not even close.

But what struck me most wasn't his appearance.

It was his presence.

Calm.

Controlled.

Watchful.

Like a man who noticed everything.

My pulse quickened unexpectedly.

Not because I was attracted to him.

Because I was fascinated.

There was a difference.

At least, that's what I told myself.

Across the ballroom, Alessandro paused briefly.

Someone approached him.

They exchanged a few words.

Then something strange happened.

His gaze lifted.

And for one brief moment, our eyes met.

The world seemed to stop.

Only for a second.

Maybe less.

Then someone stepped between us.

The moment disappeared.

Conversation resumed.

Music continued.

The ballroom came back to life.

Yet somehow, I couldn't shake the feeling that something had changed.

I didn't know it yet.

But that single glance was the beginning.

The first crack in the peaceful life I thought belonged to me.

And before the night was over, Alessandro Moretti and I would finally meet.

Face to face.

For several seconds after our eyes met, I remained frozen.

It was ridiculous.

Completely ridiculous.

People made eye contact all the time.

That was a normal human activity.

Yet somehow, the brief encounter had unsettled me.

Not because it was romantic.

Not because it was magical.

Because there had been something unexpectedly intense about it.

Something sharp.

Observant.

As though Alessandro Moretti hadn't simply looked at me.

As though he'd assessed me.

The thought was absurd.

The man didn't know who I was.

I was one journalist among dozens attending the gala.

Nothing more.

Nothing less.

Still...

The feeling lingered.

I forced myself to look away.

Work.

I was here to work.

Not stare at billionaires.

My notebook felt reassuringly solid in my hands.

Something familiar.

Something real.

I took a deep breath and returned to what I did best.

Observing.

Listening.

Paying attention.

---

The evening continued.

Guests moved through the ballroom.

Servers carried trays of food and drinks.

Conversations rose and fell like waves.

From a distance, everything appeared flawless.

But journalism had taught me something important.

The most interesting stories rarely happened in the spotlight.

They happened at the edges.

In quiet conversations.

In stolen glances.

In moments people assumed nobody noticed.

So I watched.

A politician speaking nervously with a business executive.

An investor checking his phone every few minutes.

A board member whose smile never quite reached his eyes.

Little things.

Small details.

Nothing dramatic.

Yet.

I scribbled notes continuously.

Several pages worth.

By nine o'clock, my feet hurt.

My notebook was half full.

And my confidence had begun to grow.

Maybe Aunt Clara had been right.

Maybe I did belong here.

The realization felt surprisingly powerful.

Because for years, I'd viewed rooms like this from a distance.

Now I was standing inside one.

And holding my own.

The thought made me smile.

Until someone walked directly into me.

My notebook slipped from my hands.

Papers scattered everywhere.

"Oh no."

I dropped to my knees immediately.

So did the other person.

"I'm so sorry."

The voice was male.

Young.

Embarrassed.

I looked up.

The man couldn't have been much older than thirty.

Dark hair.

Friendly face.

Expensive suit.

He looked horrified.

"No, it's my fault."

We both reached for the same page.

Our hands collided.

Then immediately pulled back.

Awkward.

Very awkward.

For a second, neither of us moved.

Then we both laughed.

The tension broke instantly.

"I'm Ethan."

He handed me a sheet of paper.

"Isabella."

"Nice to meet you, Isabella."

I accepted the page.

"Likewise."

Within moments, we'd collected everything.

Disaster avoided.

Mostly.

Ethan glanced at my press badge.

"A journalist?"

"Unfortunately."

He laughed.

"That bad?"

"Depends on the deadline."

His grin widened.

"I'll remember that."

For several minutes, we chatted casually.

Nothing important.

Just conversation.

The kind that happened naturally at events like this.

Eventually, I learned he worked for one of the companies sponsoring the gala.

Smart.

Friendly.

Easy to talk to.

A useful contact.

Which meant I immediately wrote down his information.

Journalists collected contacts the way some people collected souvenirs.

You never knew when they might become useful.

"Working hard?"

The familiar voice behind me made me jump.

I turned.

And nearly forgot how to speak.

David Foster.

Wonderful.

Perfect timing.

Ethan immediately straightened.

Apparently David intimidated strangers too.

Good to know.

David glanced between us.

His expression revealed absolutely nothing.

Which somehow made him even more intimidating.

"Hart."

"David."

His eyebrow lifted.

Right.

Again.

I sighed.

"Mr. Foster."

"Better."

Ethan looked confused.

I couldn't blame him.

David's attention shifted to my notebook.

"Anything interesting?"

The question reignited my focus immediately.

"Possibly."

"Possibly?"

I nodded.

"I'm still gathering information."

Something resembling approval flickered across his face.

Good.

Because disappointing David Foster felt alarmingly similar to disappointing a disappointed parent.

And I already had enough stress.

"Keep digging."

Then, just like every other conversation we'd ever had, he walked away.

Ethan stared after him.

"Is he always like that?"

I laughed.

"Yes."

"That's terrifying."

"Also yes."

---

An hour later, the ballroom had grown even busier.

The main speeches were about to begin.

Guests gradually moved toward the stage.

Conversations quieted.

Anticipation filled the room.

I found a position near the side of the ballroom where I could observe without being trapped in the crowd.

The perfect place for a journalist.

Or so I thought.

Because as I settled into position, I became aware of something.

A feeling.

The strange sensation of being watched.

My grip tightened around my notebook.

Slowly, I looked around.

At first, I saw nothing unusual.

Guests.

Servers.

Security.

Normal.

Then my gaze drifted across the room.

And stopped.

Alessandro Moretti stood near the far side of the ballroom.

Partially surrounded by guests.

Listening to someone speak.

Yet despite the crowd around him, his attention wasn't entirely focused on the conversation.

Because his eyes were on me.

Again.

My heartbeat stumbled.

For one brief second, neither of us looked away.

Then someone approached him.

The moment broke.

Just like before.

But this time, something felt different.

More deliberate.

More unsettling.

I couldn't explain why.

And perhaps I was imagining it.

That would certainly be the rational explanation.

Unfortunately, my instincts rarely cared about rational explanations.

And right now, my instincts were telling me one thing.

Alessandro Moretti had noticed me.

The question was why.

And for reasons I couldn't yet understand, that question made my pulse race.

Not with excitement.

With curiosity.

Dangerous, dangerous curiosity.

The kind that had gotten journalists into trouble since the beginning of time.

The kind that was about to lead me straight toward the most powerful man in the room.

And neither of us knew it yet.

But the next conversation we had would change everything.

TBC........