CRAVED BY MY EX'S MAFIA FATHER

Nina’s POV The newsroom smelled of burnt coffee and nerves. Phones rang, keyboards clicked, editors barked deadlines across the floor. I’d gotten used to the chaos in my two years here, but nothing prepared me for the email sitting in my inbox that morning. Subject: Moretti Exclusive. You’re on it. My throat tightened. For a moment, I thought it was some cruel joke. Ricardo Moretti, the man the world whispered about in equal parts fear and fascination. The Mafia King. The Devil of Milan. The man who’d just walked free after fifteen years behind bars. And I was supposed to interview him. The cursor blinked back at me, almost taunting. I reread the short email again, waiting for it to rearrange into something else, something less suicidal. But it was real. “Nina,” one of my colleagues hissed from the next desk, craning his neck to peek at my screen. “No way. You got the Moretti story?” I minimized the email too late. The newsroom buzzed as whispers spread. Journalists lived for exclusives, but this wasn’t just another headline. Ricardo Moretti wasn’t a politician or a celebrity caught in scandal. He was a man whose name was carved into blood and power, a man who supposedly ran half of Europe’s underworld from a prison cell. “You’re either about to be famous,” another colleague muttered, “or you’ll vanish, and we’ll find your body floating in the Arno.” I forced a thin smile, but inside, my heart rattled against my ribs. This was the kind of story journalists killed for. But it was also the kind of story that could get a journalist killed. I tried to steady my breathing. I told myself it was just an interview. Controlled. Legal. His lawyers had arranged it, probably as a PR stunt to make the world think he was a respectable man now, some reformed patriarch who only wanted peace. My job was to sit across from him, ask the right questions, write the truth or at least the truth his team allowed me to print. Still, a knot twisted in my stomach. Because I had seen Ricardo Moretti before. Not in person, but in a single photograph years ago. Back when I was twenty-one, tangled up in a reckless relationship with Adrian. My ex. He was beautiful in the kind of way that made you reckless. Black hair that fell into his eyes, a grin sharp enough to cut, and a taste for trouble that should have warned me away. But I was young, stupid, and wanted to believe I could be the girl who calmed the storm inside him. I never met his family. He never let me. Whenever I asked about his father, he would stiffen, then laugh it off with some excuse. “He’s away on business,” he’d say. “Always traveling. Never home.” One night, curiosity got the better of me. I snooped a little. His wallet had a photograph tucked inside, a formal portrait of a man in a tailored suit, dark eyes like steel, jaw set with authority. I’d asked who it was. Adrian snatched it back before I could study it. “Nobody you need to worry about,” he snapped. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Just a businessman father who never came home. A mystery I wasn’t allowed to touch. Until now. Until I saw that name glowing in my inbox. Ricardo Moretti. And the memory clicked into place. That man in the photo. Those cold, unyielding eyes. I hadn’t realized then. But I knew now. Adrian’s father. I pressed my palms to my desk, trying to ground myself. What were the odds? Out of every journalist in Milan, why me? Why this story? By the time I gathered my bag and notes, my nerves were frayed. The taxi ride to the Moretti estate blurred past the city streets thinning, the buildings giving way to sprawling countryside, until iron gates loomed ahead like the jaws of a beast. The mansion was a fortress. Stone walls, high gates, cameras tracking every move. Men in suits stood guard, their eyes sharp, their hands hovering near weapons I didn’t doubt were real. The driver shot me a wary glance as I stepped out. “Good luck,” he muttered, and sped away as if the devil himself might chase him. I stood frozen for a beat, staring at the gates until they groaned open. Inside, the air was different. Heavier. Charged. The kind of silence that wasn’t peaceful, but watchful. A man in a suit approached, his expression impassive. “Miss Torres?” “Yes.” My voice barely carried. “This way.” I followed him up the sweeping drive, my heels clicking against stone, my breath shallow. Every window of the mansion felt like an eye. Every shadow whispered secrets. Inside, it was all marble and chandeliers, polished elegance that couldn’t mask the undercurrent of power. Men lingered in the hallways, silent, alert. The kind of men who had seen too much and done worse. The bodyguard led me through a set of double doors. “Wait here.” And then I was alone. The office was cavernous, lined with shelves of leather-bound books, a massive desk at the far end. The air smelled faintly of smoke and cedar, sharp and rich. I paced, clutching my notes, trying to calm the thrum of adrenaline. This was just an interview. Fifteen minutes, maybe thirty. Ask the questions, record the answers, walk away. But the moment the door opened behind me, I knew nothing about this meeting would be simple. I turned and froze. Ricardo Moretti walked in as if the room belonged to him. Which, of course, it did. I had seen photos in the news of grainy mugshots, stiff courtroom captures but none of them came close. He wasn’t just powerful. He was power. Tall, broad-shouldered, his presence filled the room before his voice ever touched it. His suit was immaculate, tailored to perfection, dark as sin. His hair, streaked with silver now, framed a face carved in authority. And those eyes—cold, sharp, unreadable and fixed on me like a blade against skin. My throat dried. I knew that face. I’d seen it in Adrian’s wallet years ago. And the truth struck me with merciless clarity like I didn't know about it before This was him. Adrian’s father. The man I was supposed to fear as a journalist. The man I should never have met. Our eyes locked, and something flickered in his gaze. Recognition. Interest. He crossed the room without hurry, every step measured, commanding. I could hear the soft thud of his shoes on marble, the faint rustle of his jacket. My heart pounded louder with each step. “Miss Torres.” His voice was deep, smooth, and dangerous in its calmness. “You’re braver than I expected.” I tried to speak, but the words tangled in my throat. “Thank you…for agreeing to this interview.” My words are slow yet audible. A slow smile touched his lips but not warmth, but something sharper. “Interview.” He tasted the word, as if amused by it. I fumbled for my recorder, desperate to regain control. “Yes. Your lawyers arranged…” I was interrupted yet again. “I know what they arranged,” he cut in, his voice low, deliberate. He moved closer, close enough that I could feel the weight of his presence pressing against me. “But let’s not waste time pretending, Nina.” My chest tightened. He said my name with unnerving familiarity, as though he had known it long before today. “How—” My voice faltered. “How do you—” I paused. His gaze pinned me in place. Cold. Possessive. Certain. “I know exactly who you are.” He leaned in, his breath brushing my ear, his words sinking into my skin like a brand. “You’re not here to interview me, Nina. You’re here because I want you to be and you belong to me now.”