The Mafia King's Obsession

Chapter 3

The next morning, I woke before my alarm.

For several seconds, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, feeling strangely energized.

Then I remembered why.

The gala.

A smile spread across my face before I could stop it.

The Moretti Foundation Gala was still two days away, but the assignment had already changed something inside me.

For months, maybe years, I'd been moving through my career feeling stuck.

Like I was running on a treadmill while everyone else sprinted ahead.

Now, for the first time in a long while, I felt like I was finally moving forward.

Of course, reality had a way of humbling people.

And reality arrived the moment I walked into the kitchen.

Aunt Clara was sitting at the table with a stack of envelopes spread out in front of her.

Bills.

My smile faded slightly.

She quickly gathered them together.

Too quickly.

The movement immediately caught my attention.

"What are those?"

"Nothing."

I narrowed my eyes.

"That's definitely bills."

"They're handled."

"Aunt Clara."

She sighed.

"It's fine."

The problem with living with someone your entire life was that you learned how to recognize every lie they told.

And Aunt Clara was lying.

Not maliciously.

Not because she wanted to deceive me.

Because she didn't want me to worry.

Unfortunately, that strategy never worked.

"How bad is it?"

She avoided my gaze.

Which told me everything I needed to know.

My stomach tightened.

Money had always been a sensitive subject between us.

We weren't poor.

But we certainly weren't comfortable.

Unexpected expenses had a habit of turning ordinary months into stressful ones.

I sat down across from her.

"Talk to me."

Aunt Clara smiled softly.

The kind of smile people used when they wanted to reassure someone.

"I'm okay."

"That wasn't my question."

The smile widened.

"You've become stubborn."

"I learned from the best."

That earned a laugh.

But only briefly.

The worry remained.

Eventually she admitted the truth.

The rent had increased.

A medical bill had arrived.

The aging refrigerator was threatening to die for the third time that year.

Nothing catastrophic.

Just enough small problems to become one large one.

I listened quietly.

Guilt settled heavily in my chest.

Aunt Clara had spent years taking care of me.

Now that I was an adult, I wanted to help her.

Really help her.

Not just contribute a little money toward groceries and utilities.

I wanted to give her security.

Comfort.

Peace of mind.

The kind she deserved.

One more reason to succeed.

One more reason not to waste the opportunity David had given me.

"I'll figure something out," I said.

Aunt Clara immediately shook her head.

"No."

"No?"

"You already work too hard."

I laughed.

"That's not exactly a convincing argument."

"I'm serious, Bella."

Her expression softened.

"I don't want you carrying every burden."

Emotion tightened my throat.

The truth was that I wanted to carry them.

After everything she'd done for me, how could I not?

Before I could argue further, she stood and kissed the top of my head.

"We'll be fine."

I hoped she was right.

But as I left the apartment that morning, the stack of bills remained firmly planted in my thoughts.

---

The newsroom was even busier than usual.

The moment I stepped inside, I sensed the tension.

Something was happening.

Reporters hurried between desks.

Editors barked instructions.

Phones rang almost nonstop.

I set my bag down.

Sophia immediately appeared.

"Good morning."

"You look stressed."

"I am stressed."

"Excellent."

I blinked.

"Excuse me?"

She handed me a coffee.

"You'll fit right in."

I laughed despite myself.

"What's going on?"

Her expression brightened.

"A political scandal."

That explained everything.

Political scandals were like catnip for journalists.

Messy.

Complicated.

Full of potential headlines.

"What happened?"

Sophia lowered her voice dramatically.

"Nobody knows yet."

I stared.

"That's the scandal?"

"Pretty much."

I laughed.

She laughed too.

Then she pointed toward a cluster of reporters gathered around a conference room.

"Everyone's trying to figure it out."

Sure enough, speculation was already spreading.

Rumors moved through a newsroom faster than almost anything else.

Everyone wanted the story first.

Everyone wanted the scoop.

Everyone wanted to be the reporter who uncovered something important.

Including me.

Maybe especially me.

Unfortunately, I wasn't investigating political corruption.

I was still responsible for finishing several smaller assignments before the gala.

Which meant my morning disappeared beneath interviews, emails, and deadlines.

Not exactly glamorous.

But necessary.

Around noon, David emerged from a meeting.

Instantly, conversations quieted.

Not completely.

Just enough.

David had that effect on people.

He crossed the newsroom floor with purpose.

Several reporters straightened in their seats.

Others suddenly looked busy.

I tried not to laugh.

Even after three years, the man remained mildly terrifying.

His gaze swept across the room.

For a second, I thought he was looking for someone.

Then his eyes landed on me.

My stomach dropped.

Sophia noticed.

"Oh."

"What?"

"He's coming this way."

I looked up.

Sure enough, David was approaching my desk.

Wonderful.

Absolutely wonderful.

Because in my experience, unexpected conversations with editors rarely ended peacefully.

I quickly minimized the article I had been working on and sat up straighter.

Not because I was doing anything wrong.

Just because David Foster had a way of making people feel like they should be preparing a defense.

He stopped beside my desk.

"Hart."

"David."

His eyebrow lifted slightly.

"David?"

I winced.

Right.

Editors apparently preferred being called by their last names.

"Mr. Foster."

"Better."

Sophia coughed suspiciously into her coffee.

I knew that cough.

It was her attempt to hide laughter.

Traitor.

David ignored both of us.

"How's your preparation going?"

For a second, I was too surprised to answer.

The question wasn't criticism.

It wasn't a new assignment.

It wasn't bad news.

It was a genuine question.

"I've reviewed the foundation history, guest list, previous coverage, and event schedule."

He nodded once.

"Good."

Then he remained standing there.

Watching.

Waiting.

Apparently there was more.

"I also started researching several board members connected to the foundation."

Another nod.

The approval in his expression was subtle.

But it existed.

And strangely enough, that mattered.

"Anything interesting?" he asked.

The question caught me off guard.

I thought for a moment.

"Nothing concrete."

"Yet."

"No."

David folded his arms.

"What are you looking for?"

The answer came easily.

"The thing everyone else misses."

Something flashed across his face.

Satisfaction.

Brief.

Gone almost immediately.

But there.

"Good answer."

Sophia looked as shocked as I felt.

David Foster complimenting someone was roughly as common as seeing a unicorn ride through the newsroom.

The moment passed quickly.

"Keep digging."

Then he walked away.

Just like that.

I stared after him.

Sophia leaned closer.

"Did that actually happen?"

"What?"

"He complimented you."

"I think so."

She blinked.

"I need to write down the date."

I laughed.

Despite myself, warmth spread through my chest.

The conversation had only lasted a minute.

Yet somehow it mattered.

Maybe because it felt like proof.

Proof that David didn't see me as just another junior reporter.

Proof that he expected something from me.

Proof that he believed I could handle this assignment.

The realization was both exciting and terrifying.

Because now failure felt more personal.

---

The rest of the afternoon disappeared beneath work.

By four o'clock, my eyes hurt from staring at a screen.

By five, I had consumed enough coffee to concern medical professionals.

By six, most of the newsroom was preparing to leave.

I should have been doing the same.

Instead, I sat at my desk surrounded by notes.

Moretti Foundation.

Board members.

Corporate partnerships.

Charity initiatives.

Public appearances.

The deeper I looked, the stranger something felt.

Not suspicious.

Just unusual.

Alessandro Moretti's public image was remarkably clean.

Too clean.

Every article praised him.

Every interview admired him.

Every report highlighted another success.

It was as though the man had never made a mistake in his life.

Which was impossible.

Everyone made mistakes.

Everyone had flaws.

Everyone had failures.

Yet finding any criticism of Alessandro Moretti felt nearly impossible.

I leaned back in my chair.

"That's weird."

"What is?"

I glanced up.

Sophia was gathering her things.

"This."

I pointed at the files.

She looked.

Then shrugged.

"Maybe he's just good at what he does."

"Nobody is that perfect."

"Tell that to the internet."

Fair point.

The internet practically worshipped successful billionaires.

Still...

Something about it bothered me.

Not enough to form a conclusion.

Just enough to keep me curious.

And curiosity was a dangerous thing for a journalist.

Once it took hold, it rarely let go.

---

Outside, darkness had begun settling over the city.

Streetlights flickered to life.

Traffic thickened.

People hurried home after long workdays.

I should have gone home too.

Instead, I found myself stopping at a small bookstore a few blocks from the office.

The store had been there for years.

Old wooden shelves.

Comfortable chairs.

The smell of paper and coffee.

It was one of my favorite places in the city.

Whenever life felt overwhelming, books helped.

Stories always helped.

I wandered through the aisles for nearly twenty minutes before selecting a used investigative journalism book.

Not exactly exciting reading.

But then again, I wasn't exactly normal.

The cashier smiled as she scanned it.

"Research?"

I smiled back.

"Something like that."

A few minutes later, I stepped back onto the street carrying my purchase.

The air felt cooler now.

A breeze drifted between buildings.

For the first time all day, I relaxed.

No deadlines.

No newsroom chaos.

No pressure.

Just the city.

Just me.

And a future that suddenly seemed full of possibilities.

My phone rang.

I glanced at the screen.

Aunt Clara.

I answered immediately.

"Hi."

"Don't forget milk."

I laughed.

"Hello to you too."

"You remembered?"

"Probably."

"Probably?"

I smiled.

"I'll get the milk."

"Good."

A pause followed.

Then her voice softened.

"How was your day?"

I considered the question.

Busy.

Stressful.

Hopeful.

Complicated.

"Better than most."

"That's nice to hear."

The simple warmth in her voice made me smile.

For a moment, neither of us spoke.

Then she added quietly,

"Your mother used to sound like that."

I slowed my steps.

"Like what?"

"Hopeful."

Emotion tightened unexpectedly in my chest.

Aunt Clara didn't talk about my parents often.

Not because she avoided the subject.

Because she knew how much I missed them.

"I wish she could see me now."

The words escaped before I could stop them.

Silence greeted them.

Not uncomfortable silence.

Sad silence.

The kind filled with things neither person quite knew how to say.

Finally, Aunt Clara spoke.

"I think she'd be proud."

I swallowed hard.

"Yeah?"

"I know she would."

My eyes stung slightly.

I looked up at the darkening sky.

"Thanks."

"Anytime."

We said goodbye a minute later.

But her words stayed with me long after the call ended.

Maybe because there were some compliments that mattered more than others.

And hearing that my parents would be proud?

That mattered.

More than almost anything.

---

Later that night, after dinner and another hour of research, I sat at my desk staring at a photograph.

Alessandro Moretti.

Again.

This time the image showed him attending a charity fundraiser.

Elegant suit.

Confident smile.

Surrounded by influential people.

The picture looked perfect.

Almost too perfect.

I narrowed my eyes.

Why did that bother me so much?

Maybe because journalism had taught me something important.

Perfection was usually a performance.

The more perfect something appeared, the more carefully I examined it.

I closed the file.

Enough.

At least for tonight.

Tomorrow was another workday.

The day after that was the gala.

And if I wanted to impress David Foster, I needed to be prepared.

As I switched off the light and climbed into bed, excitement returned.

Not the nervous excitement from before.

Something stronger.

A sense that I was standing at the edge of something important.

I didn't know exactly what.

Only that my instincts refused to let it go.

Outside, the city continued moving beneath the darkness.

Somewhere in that vast sea of lights and shadows lived Alessandro Moretti.

A man I had never met.

A man whose name seemed to be everywhere.

A man I assumed was simply another wealthy businessman.

I couldn't have been more wrong.

And very soon, I was going to discover just how wrong I was.

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