Chapter 1: THREATENED NOTES.

The headlines of the day couldn't have been more depressing. An art gallery opening, a new diet from an influencer who hadn’t eaten solid food since 2019, and a political scandal nobody had the energy to pretend to care about anymore. Everything that landed on my desk reeked of recycled news wrapped in shiny cellophane.

And yet, there I was—Valentina Ríos, society reporter for The Urban Spectator—writing a piece on “the symbolic revival of wide-brimmed hats in mid-season weddings.”

That wasn’t sarcasm. That was the working title.

I sighed, deleted half a sentence from the draft, and clenched my jaw. Was this what I’d dreamed of when I graduated with honors in investigative journalism? Of course not. I wanted to uncover truths, shake the system, make headlines tremble. Instead, I was hammering the keyboard like every keystroke was a quiet resignation letter to who I once wanted to be.

–Ríos –grunted a voice from the back office. The rough, no-nonsense bark of Ramírez, editor-in-chief and living symbol of professional burnout. –Step in for a moment.

I jumped like I'd been struck by lightning. Ramírez didn’t call people for fun. If he used your last name, it meant you were either about to win a Pulitzer... or be sent straight to HR. No in-between.

I walked into his office with the caution of someone stepping into a minefield.

–Everything okay, boss?

–Close the door.

Yup. Bad omen confirmed.

–Did I do something wrong?

–No... or maybe yes. Depends on how you handle it –he said, sliding a beige envelope with no sender across the desk toward me. –This came in this morning. It's addressed to you.

I frowned. Opened it with tense fingers. A single sheet. Heavy paper. Typed letters. No signature. Just one word, underlined in black ink:

“Moretti.”

My heart skipped a beat.

–The Morettis? The Moretti-Morettis?

–The very same. And it looks like someone on the inside wants you to tell their story. Or part of it. I don’t know. But this… this isn’t just anyone knocking on the door.

I sank into the chair without asking. My brain was racing.

The Morettis were legend in San Avelino. The kind of family people only mentioned in hushed tones, like their name could open doors… or make sure they never closed again. No one had ever managed to write anything concrete about them. Not a single direct line. Until now.

–You want me to take it?

–I want you to decide. If you do, you’re on your own. The paper won’t back you. This won’t be a column; it’ll be a low-profile investigation. But if you pull it off… your name will be front-page news. And trust me—you’ll never write about hats again.

My throat tightened. The air tasted like vertigo.

I had two paths: keep churning out useless articles until I retired with questionable dignity… or dive headfirst into the abyss known as the Moretti clan.

And my ambition—that traitorous thing—was already jumping up with both hands in the air.

–I’ll do it –I said.

Ramírez gave a tired smile.

–Your first contact is tonight. Café Milano. You’ll be handed a note. You go alone. No questions. Just listen.

I nodded. My legs were shaking. But deep down, a part of me was smiling.

Finally—something that actually mattered.

Café Milano smelled like fresh espresso, polished wood, and poorly kept secrets. I sat at a table in the back, a novel open in front of me I pretended to read, while my heart pounded like it wanted to run before I did. I had a recorder hidden in my purse, nails digging into my palm, and a nagging question of whether I should even be there.

At 7:49 p.m., a soft voice broke the silence.

–Valentina Ríos?

I looked up. A man in a tailored suit, hair slicked back, expression unreadable. He wasn’t tall or physically intimidating. But he had that kind of presence that made you straighten your back without realizing it.

–Depends on who’s asking –I said, raising an eyebrow.

–I’m just the messenger. Mr. Moretti doesn’t meet with just anyone. At least, not at first.

He slid an envelope across the table, calm as if he were handing me the bill. Then he walked away without waiting for a reply. Inside the envelope was a card with an address and a time: 10:00 p.m. Lirio Street 11. No cameras. No company.

I almost walked away. Honestly, I did. But then I remembered my name on that envelope. The opportunity. The promise. The hunger for something more.

I paid for the coffee, took a taxi that dropped me off three blocks early, and walked with my jacket pulled tight, nerves raw and the undeniable sense that I was knowingly walking into madness.

The address led to a gray door in a dark alleyway. Guarded by a man who looked like he’d stepped straight out of a gangster film. He frisked me without a word, didn’t bother pretending to be polite, and gave a silent nod to enter.

The inside… was not what I expected.

Black marble. Dim lighting. Classical music floating through the air like danger had its own soundtrack. It wasn’t an office. It was a temple of power. Minimalist, elegant, designed to make you feel like you didn’t belong.

And then I saw him.

–Punctual. I like that –said a male voice from the far end of the room.

Alessio Moretti.

I recognized him instantly. That face had graced magazine covers and redacted court files. Youngest son of Don Matteo Moretti. Mafia playboy, tabloid icon, nightmare for law enforcement. But in person… he was something else entirely.

He wore a dark suit tailored like it was stitched to his ego, the first button of his shirt undone. His dark hair slightly tousled. And his eyes… hazel, glinting like burnished bronze under the low lights. Steady. Disarming. Intriguing.

–Valentina Ríos? –he repeated, as if playing with the words.

–In flesh and sarcasm –I replied, arms crossed.

He gave a crooked smile. The kind that spelled trouble—the kind that usually got exactly what it wanted.

–I expected someone more… intimidating.

–And I expected a less attractive mafioso. We’re both disappointed.

His laugh was unexpected. Deep. Genuine. It clashed with everything he was supposed to be.

–My father used to say: never underestimate a woman with a pen. And you... you look like you write things that kill.

–Only when provoked.

–Then we’re in danger.

He gestured for me to sit. I did—but kept my bag close. Always good to have an exit.

–What do you want from me, Moretti?

–A story.

–And what do I get in return?

–Access. To see what no one else sees. To know what no one else dares to say. And the guarantee you won’t die trying –he added, with that half-smile that wasn’t helping my adrenaline levels.

How thoughtful.

–That last part doesn’t sound as reassuring as you think –I said, keeping my gaze on him.

–Weren’t you looking for a real story, Ríos? –He leaned toward me, voice low, eyes sharp. –This isn’t a fairy tale. Here, the monsters don’t have wings. They have last names... and law firms.

And right then, I knew I was screwed.

But I also knew... I wasn’t backing down.

–Give me a reason to trust you –I demanded.

–I don’t have one –he said, unbothered. –And you shouldn’t trust me either. But you can’t ignore me. Not if what you’re after is the truth.

I hated that he was right. Worse, I hated how well he knew it.

–Why you? –I asked, lowering my voice. –If someone wants to leak something, why not your father? Why not your sister? Why the golden boy of the clan?

He tilted his head with an amused look.

–Golden boy? That’s a new one.

–It’s not a compliment.

–Doesn’t matter. I’m keeping it anyway.

He stood and walked slowly to a small sideboard. Took out a black envelope—stiff edges, sealed with something that looked more like artwork than security. He placed it carefully in front of me.

–There’s your first breadcrumb, journalist.

I didn’t touch it.

–What’s in it?

–Evidence. Documents linking our chief attorney to money laundering through Caribbean banks. Names, transfers, dates. If that’s not a good starting point for you… you’re in the wrong place.

My hands didn’t shake—but only because I forced them still out of sheer stubbornness. I didn’t open the envelope. Not yet. I didn’t want him to see how much it was affecting me. But a part of me screamed: this is real.

–One more thing –he added before I could stand. –Don’t be fooled by smiles or manners. In this world, people die for less than what you just accepted.

–I’m not easy to kill, Moretti.

–I hope not –he murmured, a dangerous glint in his eye. –Because if you die, they’ll blame me. And I hate carrying what isn’t mine.

I stood without another word, envelope tight in my grip. I didn’t look back. Or at least, I tried not to. But his voice stopped me just as I was about to reach the door.

–Ríos...

I paused.

–What?

–Watch out for my sister. Lucía doesn’t play. She executes.

A chill ran down my spine.

–Thanks for the warning.

–It’s not a warning. It’s your first line of defense.

I stepped out the door with tense legs, a racing pulse, and the cold certainty that I’d just signed a pact. I didn’t know with what exactly… but I knew with whom.

I walked several blocks before checking my phone. Five missed calls from Marco—my best friend, my moral compass, and my unofficial editor in every existential crisis.

I called him.

–Where the hell are you? –he barked without saying hello. –Are you okay?

–I think I just sold my soul –I said quietly. –But I did it in style.

–Did you meet him?

–Yeah.

–And?

–It’s like James Bond and Lucifer had a baby… with a sense of humor.

–Valentina...

–I’m about to write the most dangerous story of my life –I said, stopping under a flickering streetlamp. –And maybe also the most honest one.

–Just promise me you’re not going to fall for him.

Silence.

The kind of silence that says everything you’re not supposed to feel.

–Valen...

–I know what I’m doing –I lied, and hung up before I had to explain it.

I kept walking through San Avelino, the envelope pressed to my chest. The city lights flickered like they were trying to warn me about something I still didn’t want to understand. Every shadow felt like a silent witness. Every step, a deeper commitment.

I stopped in front of a shop window full of glowing TV screens. The news was covering an unresolved shooting at the port. Another story that wouldn’t be told in full. Another piece of the puzzle I had just touched with my own hands.

And it was right then—right there—that I knew:

I wasn’t getting out of this unharmed.

And the most dangerous part… was that I didn’t care.

Because that night, I didn’t just begin an investigation.

That night, without realizing it, I let the first crack open.

And the name of that crack… was Alessio Moretti.