The Mafia's Veil

I've always craved the truth.

It's more than a need - it's a hunger, an insatiable craving that gnawed at me from the moment I set foot in this world. I wasn't satisfied with the simple, the easy. I wasn't the type to sit idly by, writing soft stories that never reached beneath the surface. I clawed my way up- small-town obituaries transformed into pieces that made the city's foundations tremble. Each word was a step toward a truth buried too deep for the average reporter to touch.

And I? I was drawn to it like a moth to a flame, not knowing the burn that would come with it.

But tonight, this file, this damned piece of paper, felt different. I could almost hear its whisper, like a distant siren song. It wasn't just another assignment, another story that would rise and fall with the tide of a news cycle. No, this was dangerous. More dangerous than anything I had ever touched before. The kind of truth that could cost more than just my career.

"Lombardi?"

Max Santini's voice sliced through my thoughts like a jagged knife, his deep gravelly timbre still managing to pull me from the fog of my own mind. His presence always did that - bigger than the space he occupied, like a storm waiting to break. I didn't need to lift my eyes to know he was standing there, leaning against the desk with his arms crossed over his chest, the weight of years spent chasing ghosts pressing down on his broad shoulders. There was a heaviness to him, a weariness that spoke of too many battles fought in the shadows.

I didn't want to meet his gaze. Not now. Not when I knew what he was asking. Not when I understood what it meant, what I was about to step into.

"Infiltrate his club. Find something... anything." The words came low, sharp. "Dante isn't just pushing liquor and fancy cigars, Caterina. He's buried deeper. We need to know what's in those tunnels."

I let the words settle into the air, their weight sinking into my chest. The file before me sat like a bomb, its edges crisp and taunting. Dante Lombardi. Even his name was enough to make hardened cops shudder. It wasn't just a name-it was a sentence, a warning. The kind of name you didn't speak unless you had to. A man so ruthless, so elusive, that he left nothing but silence in his wake.

I exhaled, my hand trembling ever so slightly as it hovered over the file. There, clipped to the top of the papers, was a grainy photograph. There he was-Dante Lombardi. The face was exactly what I expected: sharp, predatory. But it wasn't just his face that struck me. It was the energy that radiated from the image-something palpable, an aura that made my skin prickle. His eyes, dark like midnight, seemed to reach out, daring you to look longer. To delve deeper. To seek answers that could tear you apart.

How many had tried and failed? How many had crossed him and vanished without so much as a whisper?

The room around me seemed to close in, the walls pressing tighter as my thoughts tangled. Could I do this? Could I go into the heart of Dante Lombardi's world and survive with my soul intact?

"How far do you need me to go?" I finally whispered, the words scraping against my throat like glass. My voice, always sharp, felt fragile now, almost too soft to be mine.

Santini's gaze was relentless. It held me, unfaltering. "Far enough to bring him down."

~

The club wasn't just soaked in money. It suffocated in it, oozing wealth from every corner. The air itself seemed thick with it, drenched in a perfume that clung to the velvet curtains and gold-leafed mirrors, so overpowering you could almost taste it. It wasn't the kind of wealth that whispered gently-it bellowed, shouted at you, making you feel small, insignificant in its presence. This was the kind of money that had forgotten humility, forgotten where it came from. The kind of wealth that bled sin and soaked it into the very carpet beneath my feet.

The bass thumped beneath me, slow and deliberate, as though the rhythm itself was marking time - waiting for something to happen. Something inevitable. Something I didn't want to witness.

I adjusted the fit of my dress - black, of course, sleek, simple. Just enough to blend in, just enough to pass without drawing attention. But not too much. Not enough to make them think I was more than I seemed. My fingers gripped the edges of the silver tray, the metal biting into my skin, as I made my way through the crowd. I walked like a shadow, slipping between bodies, silent, unnoticed.

"Just blend in, Caterina." Yolanda's words echoed in my mind, her voice cool, dismissive. "You're a waitress. Nothing more. Don't make waves."

But I've never been good at being invisible.

The crowd parted before me as I moved, a sea of tailored suits and polished shoes, the scent of expensive cologne thick in the air. Laughter spilled from every corner, hushed conversations tinged with power and greed. Every man in this room wasn't just a businessman-they were enforcers, protectors of secrets too dark to see the light of day. I knew them-had studied their faces for weeks. The ones who could vanish without a trace, who could make anyone forget their name without leaving a mark. The ones who controlled the flow of power with a look, a touch, a whisper.

And then - there he was.

Dante Lombardi wasn't seated. Why would he be? He owned the room. He didn't need a chair to command it.

He stood there, larger than life, encased in the kind of quiet power that made everything else fade into nothingness. His throne was simple yet unmistakable-a high-backed leather chair adorned with gold, the kind of furniture that exuded wealth without trying too hard. His posture was effortless, yet every muscle in his body seemed to hum with a subtle, controlled intensity. His left hand rested lazily on the armrest, fingers tapping in rhythm, like a clock counting down the seconds until something-something I couldn't name-happened. In his other hand, a glass of whiskey swirled lazily, his eyes never leaving the room. He didn't need to speak. He didn't need to move. His presence alone was enough to bend everything around him to his will.

I had researched him for weeks-studied the empire he had built from the ground up. Self-made billionaire at thirty-two, untouchable, his criminal record nonexistent-like a ghost, a myth that no one could catch. But none of the articles, none of the whispered stories, none of the interviews had prepared me for this. For the way he commanded the space simply by existing.

The air around him seemed to bend, to shift. People didn't speak to him unless he allowed it. They didn't even breathe unless he permitted it. Those who dared to challenge him-those who got too close to his power-disappeared or became part of his silent web. He was a storm, a tempest, but one that no one could outrun.

And then-his eyes found me.

The intensity of his gaze felt like a physical force. Dark, unblinking, those eyes were like pools of ink, fathomless and deep. And in that moment, they locked onto mine, steady, unwavering. I was nothing but prey in his sight. My breath caught in my throat, as though he could hear my frantic heartbeat.

I should've been invisible. That was the plan. But the way his eyes held me-kept me pinned in place, suspended in time-made me question if invisibility was even possible in this world. Would I ever be invisible again? Or had he already seen through me, pierced to the very core of who I was?