Chapter 1: The Red Wedding

The music was soft, elegant—a distant piano and the low hum of a cello echoing through the candlelit halls of Villa Belladonna. Chandeliers sparkled like captive stars above a sea of silken gowns, tailored tuxedos, and whispered secrets. Waiters floated like ghosts with silver trays, serving champagne and caviar to Naples’ most dangerous elite. It was the wedding of the year, and every smile was a mask.

Elena Moretti stood near the marble balcony, her red satin dress clinging like second skin. Her dark curls were pinned high, revealing the small stud in her left ear—a hidden mic. She looked like she belonged, but every nerve in her body knew better. This was enemy territory.

Her eyes scanned the crowd, cataloguing faces she recognized from Interpol's files: arms dealers, corrupt judges, and mafiosi who vanished from trial dockets like smoke. But she wasn't here for them.

She was here for him.

Alessandro De Luca.

Heir to the De Luca crime empire. Cold, intelligent, untouchable. The youngest son of the late Don Marco, he had taken over operations two years ago after a suspicious car crash claimed his father’s life. Since then, the De Luca name had only grown darker, richer, and more powerful.

And tonight, he was somewhere in this glittering masquerade.

A flash of movement. The crowd parted as he entered, like waves yielding to a storm. Alessandro was all sharp lines and deadly calm in a black velvet tuxedo. No mask, no smile. Just piercing steel-blue eyes and a presence that made the room hush.

Elena's breath caught. She had prepared for this moment, rehearsed it in her head a thousand times. But nothing had prepared her for him. Not like this.

He didn’t look like a monster.

He looked like temptation carved from stone.

Alessandro stopped to greet the bride and groom—minor figures, tokens of alliance between two smaller families. He offered a curt nod, barely feigning interest. Then, his eyes drifted across the room... and locked on hers.

Elena's stomach tightened.

He walked toward her.

Each step was deliberate, like a man who feared nothing and expected everything.

"You don’t belong here," he said, voice smooth, low.

Elena sipped her champagne slowly, feigning calm. "Neither do you."

A smirk touched his lips. "But I own the place."

He circled her like a lion, not touching but invading her space. She knew the scent of danger, and it was laced with his cologne.

"What are you really here for, Signorina...?"

"Valentina Rossi," she lied easily, using one of her aliases. "Fashion editor. Milan."

He chuckled. "You don't dress like you report on dresses. And you certainly don’t drink like one."

Elena tilted her head. "And you notice all that after just one glance?"

His eyes darkened, amused. "I notice everything."

Before she could reply, a scream ripped through the ballroom.

A gunshot.

Glass shattered. People screamed. The cellist dropped his bow.

A man collapsed near the buffet, blood blossoming on his white shirt like a rose. Panic spread fast, but Alessandro didn't move.

He looked at the body.

Then at her.

Elena’s heart pounded. She'd been so careful. She wasn't armed. She had no plan for this.

"Run," Alessandro said quietly. "If you're not with them... run."

But she couldn’t move. Because this wasn’t just a hit.

This was a message.

And she was now part of it.

Elena didn’t remember running—only the roar in her ears and the blur of velvet walls as she fled the ballroom. Somewhere behind her, the music had died. Blood and glass replaced champagne and cello.

She slipped through a service door, heels clicking down a tiled hallway lit with sterile lights. Her chest heaved, breath sharp with panic and adrenaline. She ducked into a storage room, locking the door behind her.

Silence. Heavy. Pressing.

Her fingers trembled as she pulled out her phone and sent a single message to her handler:

“Hit at Belladonna. One dead. De Luca saw me.”

No reply.

She took off her earrings—the mic dead. Her cover was thin, and now, it was cracked.

Footsteps.

She pressed herself behind a linen shelf, gripping a letter opener she found on a nearby table. Not much—but enough to make a difference.

The door creaked open.

“Easy,” said a familiar voice. “It’s me.”

Alessandro De Luca stood in the doorway, a gun lowered in his hand and a storm in his eyes.

“You followed me,” she said.

“No. I saved you. Again.” He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “You're either very brave or very stupid, Signorina Rossi.”

“Or both,” she said, forcing steel into her voice.

He walked closer. His eyes studied her—not the dress, not the mask, but her posture, her stance, her fear. He was dissecting her with a glance.

“Who are you really?” he asked, quieter now.

“You first.”

He chuckled softly. “Everyone knows who I am. But you? You’re a ghost.”

“I’m a journalist.”

“That much I guessed. But not fashion. No. You’re not here for velvet gowns. You’re here for blood.”

Their eyes locked.

Something shifted between them—like the air charged with heat and danger.

“I should hand you over,” he said. “To my men. Let them ask the questions.”

“Why haven’t you?”

“Because I don’t know if you’re my enemy... or just in over your head.”

Elena swallowed. “Maybe both.”

A pause. He took another step.

“You saw who fired that shot?”

“No. Only the victim.”

He cursed under his breath. “That was Anton Carlo. Russo’s finance man. Someone wanted to send a message.”

“To you?”

“Maybe. Or maybe someone wanted to see what I’d do.” He glanced at her. “Or how you’d react.”

He was testing her. Again.

“What happens now?” she asked.

“You tell me why you’re really here,” he said. “And I decide whether I protect you… or destroy you.”

Elena stared at him, feeling her pulse thud against her ribs.

“If I talk, I’m dead. If I stay, I’m dead.”

“Not if I say otherwise.”

“Why would you protect me?”

He smirked. “Because for some godforsaken reason, I want to know more. About you. About what you’re hiding.”

The silence stretched.

Then, he stepped closer—so close she could see the faint scar under his left eye.

“You’ve got fire,” he said softly. “Don’t burn out too soon.”

Then he was gone.

Leaving her with the scent of smoke, silk…

…and the sense that her life had just twisted into something far more dangerous than she ever imagined.

Elena sat in the backseat of a sleek black car, her hands clenched tightly in her lap as the city of Naples slid by like a living painting of ancient shadows and neon light. Beside her, Alessandro said nothing, staring out the tinted window as if the streets whispered things only he could hear.

She didn’t ask where they were going. She didn’t need to.

Wherever it was, it wouldn’t be safe.

The silence between them wasn’t empty. It was loaded—thick with unspoken questions and untrustable answers. Every second stretched like a string pulled too tight, waiting to snap.

“You’re awfully calm for someone who was nearly caught in a mafia hit,” he said at last.

“I’ve seen worse,” she muttered.

“Journalism is more exciting than I thought.”

Elena looked out her window. “You’d be surprised what people confess when they think no one’s listening.”

He glanced at her. “And what do you hope I’ll confess?”

“That you’re not the monster everyone says you are.”

He raised a brow. “And if I am?”

She turned to meet his gaze. “Then I’ll be the one who exposes you.”

The smirk he gave her wasn’t amusement—it was warning.

Minutes later, the car stopped outside a grand estate on a hill overlooking the bay. Guards in dark suits flanked the iron gates. One nodded at Alessandro and opened the door.

“Welcome to Villa De Luca,” he said as she stepped out.

The mansion was carved from old money—stone archways, Roman statues, olive trees winding through a courtyard soaked in moonlight. It looked like a palace. It smelled like power.

And danger.

Inside, everything was polished to perfection: marble floors, golden chandeliers, dark oil paintings of patriarchs past. A legacy built on blood and silence.

“This way,” Alessandro said, leading her down a hall of portraits. Faces of men with cold eyes. Men who once ruled the criminal underworld. Men he carried in his veins.

She stopped in front of one: Don Marco De Luca.

“You look like him,” she said softly.

Alessandro’s jaw clenched. “He taught me how to hold a gun before I could ride a bike.”

“Must’ve been a warm childhood.”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he opened a set of doors that led to his study—a modern lair with black walls, a mahogany desk, and a wall of security monitors. One showed the ballroom aftermath from earlier: police tape, blood still glistening on marble.

Elena moved toward the monitors. “You watch everything?”

“Always.”

“Paranoia suits you.”

“It’s not paranoia if everyone really is out to get you.”

She turned. “Why bring me here?”

“Because if someone’s marked you, you won’t survive on your own. And because,” he added, “I don’t believe in coincidences. You show up at a mafia wedding hours before a murder, and the FBI girl dies instead of you?”

She froze. “You think the bullet was for me?”

“I think you were the intended message.”

A beat passed. Her mind raced, trying to piece together why anyone—FBI, Russo, or otherwise—would want her silenced before her story was even finished.

Then he dropped the match that lit everything on fire:

“Your father worked with Don Marco, didn’t he?”

Elena’s heart slammed in her chest.

“What did you say?”

“Giovanni Moretti. Interpol. Disappeared twenty years ago. Except he didn’t disappear, did he?” Alessandro’s voice was quiet, sharp. “He was killed. And you think we did it.”

The blood drained from her face.

“How do you know that name?” she whispered.

“I make it my business to know my enemies,” he said. “And those hunting ghosts in my family tree.”

Her knees nearly buckled.

Because everything she believed—the righteous crusade, the articles, the lies—suddenly felt like a noose tightening around her throat.

“What if I told you,” he said, stepping closer, “that my father didn’t kill yours?”

“Then I’d call you a liar.”

“And what if I told you I don’t know who did?”

She looked up at him, and for the first time, saw something raw behind his eyes—not guilt, but truth. And confusion. Maybe even pain.

She didn’t know what to believe.

But she did know one thing:

The De Luca bloodline held the answers to everything she’d spent her life searching for.

And if she wanted justice, or vengeance, or both—

She’d have to stay in this lion’s den a little longer.