ASHES AND OATHS : A MAFIA LOVE STORY (BOOK 1)

(Isabella’s POV) Barcelona shimmered under the late afternoon sun — golden rooftops, chatter, and the scent of roasted chestnuts drifting through Las Ramblas. I adjusted my press badge for the hundredth time, trying to look like a confident journalist instead of a woman whose career was hanging by a thread. This conference was supposed to be my comeback. A high-profile tech summit filled with billionaires, inventors, and people who never looked back once they started winning. People like Damian Moretti. I’d heard whispers about him before — the Italian-born CEO who built his company from the shadows of a scandal. Some said he’d broken from his family’s dark empire. Others said he was still its silent heir. Either way, men like Damian didn’t give interviews. But I was Isabella Martinez — and today, I planned to change that. Inside the marble lobby, he stood out immediately. Six-foot-something, broad shoulders under a tailored black suit, dark hair swept carelessly to the side. He wasn’t smiling like the others. His presence commanded the room without effort. I caught his gaze for a moment — sharp, unreadable, and far too aware. A shiver traced my spine before I looked away. “Miss Martinez?” a voice interrupted. My editor, Miguel, was on the phone. “If you don’t get something big from this summit, don’t bother coming back.” No pressure. I spotted Damian near the balcony, alone for a moment. Now or never. I grabbed my recorder and approached. “Mr. Moretti?” He turned slowly, his eyes locking on mine like he’d already guessed my name. “Yes?” “I’m Isabella Martinez, Barcelona Daily. I’d love a few words about your company’s new AI project.” His expression didn’t change. “I don’t give interviews.” I forced a smile. “Then this will be your first.” A small spark of amusement crossed his face. “Persistent,” he said, his Italian accent wrapping around the word. “But persistence can be dangerous, Miss Martinez.” Before I could respond, a man in a grey coat brushed past me — too close. I felt something slip into my handbag. My instincts, honed from years chasing stories, screamed wrong. I turned, but the man had vanished. Damian’s gaze flicked briefly toward the crowd, then back to me. “You should be more careful with who approaches you.” “What do you mean?” He stepped closer — close enough that I caught the faint scent of cedar and something darker. “There are eyes in this room that don’t blink. Go home, Miss Martinez. Tonight.” Then he was gone, disappearing into a side corridor before I could demand answers. Heart hammering, I left the event early. In my apartment, I emptied my bag — press badge, notebook, lipstick… and an envelope. Unmarked. Heavy. I opened it — and froze. Stacks of documents. Numbers. Names. Lorenzo Moretti. Viktor Dragic. Two names that didn’t belong together — one an Italian billionaire, the other a Balkan crime lord. The sound of footsteps echoed outside my door. My lights flickered once, then twice. Someone was out there. Watching. I grabbed my phone, but before I could dial, a deep, familiar voice came through the c***k of my window. “Didn’t I tell you to go home, Miss Martinez?” I turned. Damian Moretti stood on my balcony, his white shirt streaked with blood. “Lock the doors,” he said quietly. “They’ve already found you.”