The Mafia King's Obsession

Chapter 2

For a few seconds, I remained frozen in my chair.

David Foster was still standing behind the glass wall of his office, watching me with the same unreadable expression he always wore.

The man could probably win awards for looking intimidating.

Sophia nudged my shoulder.

"Well?"

I sighed.

"Pray for me."

"Always."

"That wasn't convincing."

She grinned.

"Fine. If you get fired, I'll help you update your résumé."

"You're a terrible friend."

"I know."

I couldn't help smiling as I stood.

Moments like these were one of the reasons I valued Sophia so much.

She had a gift for making stressful situations feel less overwhelming.

Unfortunately, there wasn't enough humor in the world to make walking into David Foster's office pleasant.

I crossed the newsroom floor.

The closer I got, the more nervous I became.

By the time I reached the door, my palms were damp.

Ridiculous.

I wasn't a teenager being called to the principal's office.

I was a professional.

A professional who suddenly couldn't remember how to breathe properly.

I knocked lightly.

David looked up from the file on his desk.

"Come in."

His office was surprisingly simple.

No expensive decorations.

No unnecessary clutter.

Just shelves of books, stacks of files, and a large desk positioned near the window.

The city skyline stretched beyond the glass.

Most people would probably find the view impressive.

David never seemed to notice it.

I sat in the chair opposite him.

Silence followed.

A long silence.

The kind David seemed to enjoy.

I, on the other hand, hated it.

Finally, he closed the file.

"How long have you worked here, Hart?"

The question caught me off guard.

"Three years."

"And what have you learned?"

I blinked.

Of all the questions I expected, that wasn't one of them.

"A lot?"

David stared.

Clearly, that wasn't the answer he wanted.

I straightened slightly.

"I've learned that facts matter."

No reaction.

"That deadlines are brutal."

Nothing.

"That people don't always tell the truth."

Something flickered in his eyes.

Interest.

"Go on."

I hesitated.

Then continued.

"I've learned that sometimes the story people present to the world isn't the real story."

David leaned back in his chair.

For the first time, I had his full attention.

"Interesting."

The single word felt strangely significant.

He opened a drawer and removed a black folder.

My heartbeat quickened.

Something about the folder immediately felt important.

David placed it on the desk between us.

"Open it."

I obeyed.

The moment I saw what was inside, my breath caught.

An invitation.

Elegant.

Expensive.

The kind of invitation that practically screamed wealth.

Silver lettering glimmered against black cardstock.

Moretti Foundation Annual Charity Gala.

For several seconds, I simply stared.

The Moretti Foundation Gala wasn't just another event.

It was one of the biggest social gatherings of the year.

Business leaders.

Politicians.

Celebrities.

Investors.

Everyone who mattered would be there.

And apparently, so would I.

Slowly, I looked up.

"You want me to cover this?"

"Yes."

I genuinely wondered if I'd heard him correctly.

"Me?"

A hint of impatience crossed his face.

"No, the invisible reporter sitting behind you."

I turned my head dramatically.

"There isn't anyone behind me."

David pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Focus, Hart."

I quickly looked back at him.

"Sorry."

Though secretly, I was pleased.

The joke hadn't made him laugh, but at least he hadn't thrown me out of the office.

Progress.

My gaze returned to the invitation.

Excitement began building inside me.

A dangerous amount of excitement.

The kind capable of leading to disappointment.

"Why me?"

The question slipped out before I could stop it.

David folded his hands on the desk.

"Because everyone else will write the obvious story."

I frowned.

"The obvious story?"

"They'll write about the money."

His voice remained calm.

"The guest list. The fashion. The charitable donations."

I nodded slowly.

That was true.

Most coverage would focus on exactly those things.

David's eyes sharpened.

"I want something more."

A thrill ran through me.

Journalists lived for those words.

I want something more.

"What kind of more?"

"The story beneath the surface."

My pulse quickened.

Because that was exactly the kind of reporting I wanted to do.

Not shallow observations.

Not recycled press releases.

Real journalism.

The kind that uncovered truth.

The kind that mattered.

David slid another file across the desk.

"This contains background information."

I opened it immediately.

Several pages detailed the history of the Moretti Foundation.

Millions donated to hospitals.

Scholarship programs.

Community development projects.

Disaster relief funds.

The list seemed endless.

On paper, it was impressive.

Almost unbelievably impressive.

"You'll spend the next two days preparing."

I nodded.

"Then you'll attend the gala."

"Okay."

"Ask questions."

Another nod.

"Observe."

I wrote mental notes.

"Pay attention."

That part was easy.

I always paid attention.

It was one of the few things I considered myself genuinely good at.

David's expression became serious.

"And don't waste this opportunity."

The words landed heavily.

Because suddenly this wasn't just another assignment.

It felt like a test.

A chance.

Maybe even the chance.

The one I'd been waiting for.

"I won't."

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then David surprised me.

"You know why I chose you?"

I blinked.

"No."

"Because you're curious."

I wasn't expecting that answer.

"Curious?"

"Most reporters stop asking questions once they find an acceptable answer."

His gaze held mine.

"You keep asking."

Something tightened in my chest.

Coming from David Foster, that might have been the closest thing to praise I had ever received.

"Thank you."

He waved a hand dismissively.

"Don't thank me yet."

Of course.

There was the David I knew.

I smiled anyway.

Gathering the files, I stood.

As I reached the door, his voice stopped me.

"Hart."

I turned.

"Yes?"

"Do your homework."

I held up the folder.

"Already planning to."

"Good."

Then he returned to his paperwork.

Conversation over.

Dismissed.

Classic David.

The moment I stepped back into the newsroom, Sophia practically appeared from nowhere.

Her eyes locked onto the folder in my hands.

"Oh my God."

"What?"

"Oh my God."

I laughed.

"You're repeating yourself."

She grabbed the folder.

The second she saw the invitation, she let out a squeal loud enough to attract attention from nearby desks.

Several reporters looked over.

Sophia didn't care.

"You're going to the Moretti Gala!"

I couldn't stop smiling.

"Apparently."

"This is huge."

"I know."

"No, seriously. This is huge."

"I heard you the first time."

Her excitement was contagious.

For the first time all day, maybe all month, hope flooded through me.

Real hope.

Not the fragile kind built on wishful thinking.

The kind built on opportunity.

Maybe Aunt Clara had been right.

Maybe my chance had finally arrived.

Maybe things were about to change.

As I sat down and looked at the black invitation once more, I felt excitement, nervousness, and determination all tangled together inside me.

What I didn't feel was fear.

Because if I had known where that invitation would eventually lead me...

If I had known whose path I was about to cross...

If I had known how completely my life would change...

I would have been terrified.

But ignorance can feel a lot like confidence.

And at that moment, I was confident.

Certain that I was walking toward the opportunity of a lifetime.

Completely unaware that I was also walking toward the beginning of my downfall.

For the rest of the afternoon, I found it nearly impossible to concentrate.

Every time I tried to focus on my work, my eyes drifted back to the black folder sitting on my desk.

The Moretti Foundation Gala.

My first major assignment.

The opportunity I had spent three years waiting for.

A chance to prove I was capable of more than local stories and routine interviews.

A chance to prove I belonged here.

I opened the file again.

And then again.

And then once more.

By the fourth time, Sophia leaned across our desks.

"You're staring at that folder like it's going to reveal the meaning of life."

I didn't look up.

"It might."

"It won't."

"You don't know that."

She laughed.

"I do know that."

I finally closed the folder.

"Fine."

"Good."

Her expression turned thoughtful.

"So what do you know about Alessandro Moretti?"

The question earned a shrug.

"What everyone knows."

"Which is?"

I leaned back in my chair.

"He's a billionaire."

"Mhm."

"He owns half the city."

"Probably."

"He donates ridiculous amounts of money to charity."

Sophia nodded.

"And?"

I thought for a moment.

"People seem obsessed with him."

"That's because he's gorgeous."

I rolled my eyes.

"There it is."

"There what is?"

"The reason you're interested."

She grinned shamelessly.

"Can you blame me?"

Unfortunately, no.

Even I had to admit Alessandro Moretti was difficult to ignore.

Not that I spent much time thinking about him.

But his face appeared everywhere.

Business magazines.

Television interviews.

Newspaper articles.

Billboards.

It felt like the entire city knew who he was.

The strange thing was that despite all that publicity, very little was actually known about him.

At least not personally.

Most articles focused on his business achievements.

His investments.

His charitable work.

Rarely anything deeper.

As a journalist, that intrigued me.

As a person, I barely thought about it.

At least, that's what I told myself.

The rest of the workday passed quickly.

By six o'clock, the newsroom had begun to empty.

Reporters gathered their belongings and headed home.

One by one, the lights switched off.

Soon only a handful of us remained.

I saved my work and packed my bag.

As I headed toward the elevator, David's voice called after me.

"Hart."

I turned.

He stood near his office door.

"Yes?"

"Research."

I lifted the folder.

"Already planning to."

His expression remained serious.

"Good."

Then he walked away.

Typical David.

Three years of working together and the man still communicated primarily through single words.

The elevator doors opened.

I stepped inside smiling.

For the first time in months, I felt excited about work.

Maybe that excitement was premature.

Maybe nothing would come from this assignment.

But for now, I intended to enjoy the feeling.

---

The city looked different at night.

The rush of the day had softened.

Streetlights illuminated sidewalks.

Neon signs glowed against the darkness.

Restaurants buzzed with customers.

Music drifted through open doors.

For a moment, I slowed my pace.

Sometimes I became so focused on reaching the future that I forgot to appreciate the present.

Tonight, the city felt alive.

Full of possibilities.

I wondered where I would be five years from now.

Ten.

Would I still be chasing stories?

Would I finally have the career I wanted?

Would Aunt Clara still be teasing me about my coffee addiction?

The thought made me smile.

By the time I reached home, the apartment smelled amazing.

A rare and welcome surprise.

Because while Aunt Clara excelled at many things, cooking was occasionally a dangerous adventure.

I stepped inside.

"Something smells edible."

Aunt Clara appeared from the kitchen.

"I'll pretend that was a compliment."

"It was."

"Mostly."

She pointed a wooden spoon at me.

"You've become very brave."

"Or very hungry."

Her laugh echoed through the apartment.

Instantly, some of the tension I'd been carrying disappeared.

Home had always done that.

No matter how difficult the day became, something about this place made everything feel manageable.

I dropped my bag beside the couch.

Aunt Clara immediately noticed the black folder sticking out of it.

Her eyes narrowed.

"What happened?"

I blinked.

"What do you mean?"

"Something happened."

She folded her arms.

"I can tell."

Sometimes I was convinced she possessed supernatural abilities.

There was no other explanation.

I pulled the invitation from the folder and handed it to her.

The moment she read it, her eyes widened.

"Oh, Bella."

My heart swelled at the pride in her voice.

"It's a big assignment."

"It certainly is."

She looked at me.

Then looked at the invitation again.

Then back at me.

And suddenly she was smiling.

Not her usual smile.

A brighter one.

The kind that reached her eyes.

The kind that made her look years younger.

"I knew it."

I laughed.

"Knew what?"

"Your opportunity."

The words hit harder than they should have.

Because this morning, I had been doubting myself.

Wondering if anyone would ever notice my work.

Now I was holding proof that someone had.

Maybe only one person.

Maybe only David.

But it was enough.

A beginning.

Over dinner, I told her everything.

The meeting.

The assignment.

David's instructions.

Even Sophia's embarrassing excitement about Alessandro Moretti.

That part earned a laugh.

Afterward, while Aunt Clara washed dishes, I carried the folder into my room.

The apartment had grown quiet.

Outside my window, the city lights glittered against the darkness.

I sat at my desk and opened the file again.

This time, I focused on the details.

The foundation.

The guest list.

The event schedule.

Several pages later, I found a photograph.

Alessandro Moretti.

The image had clearly been taken during a public event.

He stood surrounded by reporters.

Confident.

Composed.

Untouchable.

I studied the photograph for a moment.

Then another.

And another.

There was something unusual about him.

Not his appearance.

Not his reputation.

Something else.

Something I couldn't quite identify.

Maybe it was the look in his eyes.

A look that seemed strangely distant despite the crowd around him.

As though he existed slightly apart from everyone else.

The thought was ridiculous.

I didn't know the man.

I was building theories based on a photograph.

Still...

The feeling lingered.

I closed the file.

Enough research for one night.

Tomorrow would be busy.

The gala was approaching.

And for the first time in years, I genuinely believed my life might be heading somewhere exciting.

I changed into pajamas and climbed into bed.

Sleep came slowly.

Not because I was worried.

Because I was hopeful.

I kept imagining possibilities.

Future assignments.

Promotions.

Recognition.

A career I could be proud of.

The future seemed closer than ever.

What I didn't know was that fate was already moving pieces into place.

And somewhere else in the city, Alessandro Moretti was ending a meeting that would have consequences reaching far beyond his world.

Consequences that would eventually reach mine.

But on that night, none of that mattered.

On that night, I was simply Isabella Hart.

A young journalist with a dream.

A black invitation.

And absolutely no idea that my life was about to change forever.

To be continued.........