The Mafia King’s Obsession

The Gala

(Aria)

The Sunlight on my face felt too soft, too calm for the storm brewing inside me.

I woke up with my heart racing like a fast car, the echo of Luca's voice after four years was still ringing in my head. “Did you miss me Aria?”

I sat up in my bed as my breath trembled. I scanned my apartment as though I was expecting him to be hanging around somewhere around here, leaning against the shadows with those merciless eyes staring at me.

But the room was empty.

The only thing that felt out of place was my window that had been left slightly ajar letting in the cool morning breeze.

For a moment, I convinced myself that last night had been nothing but a nightmare or a hallucination born from too much work and little sleep.

Then I saw it.

It was a single red Rose on my windowsill. It's petals were perfect with dew and crimson like spilled wine. There was a card leaned beside it….the writing was unmistakable as I knew only one person who could write so perfectly.

See you tonight, tesoro.

My stomach dropped in panic as I stared at the words. The ink felt like it had been carved in blood.

I gripped the rose tightly in my fist until a thorn pricked me, bringing me back to reality.

“He won't ruin this life too,” I whispered to myself. “He can't,”

I threw the rose out the window and walked to my bathroom with shaky breath. Staring back at my reflection in the mirror, I let out a deep breath.

I forced myself under the shower and allowed the warm water to roll onto my skin. Maybe if I stayed in here long enough, it would wash away the touch of his voice, the ghost of the man who had thrown my world upside down.

But it didn't.

No matter how long I stood in the shower or scrubbed my skin, Luca lingered.

I stepped out of the shower and wrapped my body in a towel whilst checking my phone. I needed to make sure everything was perfect for tonight's gala and in doing so, I would distract myself from thoughts of Luca.

By Evening, the gallery no longer smelt of paint and paper. It smelled like money, I would know.

Crystal chandeliers dripped gold across marble floors, and laughter floated through the air, elegant and empty. Waiters moved like shadows, refilling glasses, while a soft string quartet painted the background with notes too delicate to drown the chaos beneath them.

And me? I wore my calm like a mask.

The black gown I wore hugged my frame, it was simple but unforgiving, and my hair was pulled into a sleek bun that made my neck feel far too exposed. My lips held a smile that didn’t reach my eyes.

“Aria Moreau,” someone purred, brushing a kiss across my cheek. The French investor I had been watching for was here but somehow, I wasn't excited.

I smiled politely, responding to his greetings with much practised grace.

“Good Evening Mr Pierre, hope everything is to your liking?,” I asked with a smile.

“Oh yes yes,” he replied with a rich French accent. “I must say, the gallery is astounding but my my, you have to be the most beautiful artwork here,” he teased.

I smiled awkwardly. I never learnt how to handle compliments.

“Thank you Mr Pierre. Please let me know if you see anything you like. I have to attend to other guests,”

He nodded and walked over to an artwork on the wall.

I let out a sigh I didn't know I was holding. That wasn't fun.

Inside, my nerves were all over the place.

Every shadow felt heavier than usual. Every whisper made my heart hammer.

Then, across the room, I heard it….soft laughter from a pair of women near the champagne table.

“The Morettis have returned to Florence,” one murmured, voice dripping with gossip.

My pulse stopped cold.

“Rumor says he’s here tonight,” the other replied.

I turned sharply, forcing my breath to stay even. “Excuse me,” I murmured, walking toward the nearest painting just to anchor myself. My fingers brushed the cool glass frame, grounding me and keeping me on my feet.

He wouldn’t come here. He couldn’t.

I was safe here.

Wasn’t I?

Just then, the music changed into something slower and heavier. It was the kind of melody that made a room go silent.

And then I felt it.

The crowd went still as heads turned and mouths whispered.

He walked in like a storm in a calm.

Luca Moretti.

He was dressed in black which had been tailored to perfection. His presence alone made it seem as thought the world had tilted in its axis.

The years had carved sharper lines into his face, he was like a predator refined by time. His eyes swept the room once and found me instantly.

My glass nearly slipped from my hand.

Our eyes locked for a moment. It was like being caught in a memory I had buried alive. Four years of silence evaporated, leaving only heat and ache and everything I swore I had forgotten.

I tore my eyes away, pretending to focus on the art in front of me, but my pulse thundered so hard I could hear it.

He moved closer.

“Beautiful evening,” his voice murmured behind me smoothly.

I froze, then forced my lips into a smile, turning to face him. “You shouldn’t be here.”

He tilted his head, that almost-smile gracing his mouth. “You said the same thing last night.”

My breath caught in my throat. So it hadn’t been a dream.

Guests floated around us, oblivious to the war happening in the space between us. To them, we were two people admiring art. To me, it felt like standing on a fault line moments before the earth split.

“Enjoying the exhibit?” I asked plainly, my voice was like sweet poison.

His gaze flicked to the painting beside us, red streaks over white. My pain on canvas. “You’ve changed,” he said softly. “But your art still bleeds.”

I swallowed hard and forced my voice. “Leave.”

“Can’t,” he murmured, stepping closer to me. “Not until you hear me out.”

“Luca—”

“Aria,” he cut in, his voice low enough to melt my name into air. “You keep pretending I don’t exist, but your eyes tell the truth.”

I forced my chin up. “The truth is that I want you gone.”

His gaze burned hotter, darker. “Liar.”

I hated how the word sank into me, how it made my chest tighten.

The crowd swelled again, laughter rising. I used it to step back, to breathe, to rebuild my mask.

“Smile, Aria,” Claire’s voice whispered in my mind. “It’s a gala, not a burial.”

So I smiled. Perfectly.

“You’re causing a scene,” I said lightly, keeping my eyes on the guests, not him.

“Then let me cause one worth remembering.”

My heart stuttered.

Before I could speak, he leaned in, close enough that only I could hear him. His breath brushed my ear, warm and dangerous.

“You were never supposed to see that night.”

The words slammed into me like a physical blow.

I turned, eyes wide. “What did you say?”

But he was already stepping back, his expression unreadable.

“Believe what you want,” he said quietly. “But you don’t know the whole story, tesoro. You never did.”

My throat went dry. The room felt smaller, the air heavier. I wanted to scream, to demand answers, but the world kept spinning, the music playing, people laughing.

“Why are you here?” I whispered.

He met my gaze with something that almost looked like regret. “Because it’s time you remembered what really happened.”

And then he walked away.