Sexting the Ruthless Don

Azeelia Cole Rain didn’t make the graveyard look sad. It just made everything slick, cold, and dark. I stood in front of the marble headstone, my leather jacket soaking up the water. The inscription was simple: Ethan Cole. Beloved Brother. Beneath his name were the dates of his life, short and stolen. Three years today. Three years since the police handed me a folder, called it a gang dispute, and closed the case. They thought I would accept it. They thought I would cry, put flowers on a grave, and move on. But they didn’t hear Ethan’s final phone call. They didn’t hear his voice trembling as he told me he found something he shouldn't have. He wasn't part of any gang. He was an accountant who asked the wrong questions. I reached down, placing a single white rose on the wet stone. "I'm close, Ethan," I whispered. "I'm going to make him pay." One name had surfaced again and again during my midnight searches. One name sat at the center of every broken business, every missing body, and every dirty bribe in this city. Gabriel Marchetti. He was the Don of the city's largest syndicate. To the public, he was a billionaire investor with expensive suits and cold eyes. To the street, he was a ghost who killed without hesitation. The police were afraid of him. The mayor was afraid of him. I wasn't afraid. I was angry. My phone vibrated in my pocket. I pulled it out, seeing my editor’s name on the screen. Marcus. "Where are you, Azeelia?" Marcus's voice was sharp when I answered. "Tell me you aren't at the cemetery getting yourself worked up again." "I'm paying my respects, Marcus." "You're hunting a monster," he snapped. "I saw your research files on the office cloud. You're looking into Gabriel Marchetti again. I told you to delete those." "He killed my brother." "You don't have proof!" Marcus sighed heavily. "Listen to me, Azeelia. Two years ago, a reporter from the Daily Press started asking questions about Marchetti’s shipping docks. You know where he is now? Nobody does. He disappeared off the face of the earth. His car was found burned out by the river." "I'm careful." "You're reckless," Marcus corrected. "Marchetti doesn't just kill people. He erases them. If he finds out an investigative journalist is digging into his family, you won't live long enough to write your headline. Drop it. That's an order." The call went dead. I stared at the dark screen, then slipped the phone back into my pocket. Marcus was right about one thing. As Azeelia Cole, the reporter, I would never get close to Gabriel Marchetti. He had security guards, lawyers, and bulletproof glass protecting him. If I walked up to his estate with a notebook, I would end up at the bottom of the river too. I had to find another way in. My apartment was small and smelled like stale coffee. Wall-to-wall printouts, maps, and financial reports covered the far side of my living room. I sat at my desk, the glow of my laptop screen lighting up the dark room. For months, I had been tracking the digital footprints of the Marchetti syndicate. A guy like Gabriel didn't use normal social media. He didn't have a public profile where he posted photos of his morning coffee. But power always leaves a trail. Deep within the encrypted networks, I found a private, high-end messaging app. It was built for the ultra-rich and dangerous—a place where identity was protected by complex codes. My contact on the dark web had confirmed it last week. Account handle: Viper_00. It belonged to Gabriel. I looked at my mirror reflecting my red eyes, dark hair, and tired expression. Gabriel Marchetti wouldn't talk to a bitter girl looking for revenge. But he was a man. And powerful men had weaknesses. I clicked Create New Account. Name: Scarlet. I uploaded a profile picture. It wasn't me, but a silk red dress draped over a chair, with just a hint of a shadow in the background. Mysterious. Dangerous. Inviting. My heart hammered against my ribs as I opened a blank message box addressed to Viper_00. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. What do you say to the man who murdered your family? How do you hook a predator? I typed a message, deleted it, and typed another. Finally, I kept it simple. They say you own everything in this city, Don Marchetti. But you don't own me... yet. I stared at the text. It was risky. It was provocative. It was exactly the kind of line a man like him couldn't ignore. I hit send. The red dot next to his name turned gray. Sent. I held my breath, leaning back in my chair. Seconds ticked by. One minute. Two minutes. My stomach churned with a sudden spike of panic. What if he tracked my location instantly? What if his men were already coming? Then, the screen flashed. A notification popped up. A new message from Viper_00. My hands shook as I clicked it. I was wondering when you would finally contact me.