Sexting the Ruthless Don

4

Azeelia Cole

The invitation sat on my desk like a golden ticket straight into the devil’s lair.

The Marchetti Foundation Gala was the biggest social event of the year, held at the Grand Imperial Hotel. It was a high-society masquerade designed to launder Gabriel’s public image, wrapping a criminal empire in silk, champagne, and charity donations.

It took two hours of relentless begging to get Marcus to sign off on my press pass.

"Only social coverage, Azeelia!" he had snapped, shoving the pass into my hands. "You write about who wore what dress and who gave the biggest check. If you so much as ask about logistics, container ships, or illegal accounts, I will fire you before security throws you off the roof."

"Just society coverage," I lied smoothly.

My real plan was simple. I didn't expect to get near Gabriel in a crowded room full of politicians and bodyguards, but his inner circle would be there. His lieutenants, his accountants, the men who signed the checks Ethan had audited. If I could corner one of them near the bar, I might finally get a lead.

I dressed carefully. I picked a deep crimson dress—silk, backless, and striking. It felt like putting on armor. If I was going to walk into Gabriel Marchetti’s world, I wasn't going to hide in the shadows.

The ballroom of the Grand Imperial was blinding. Crystal chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings, casting warm gold light over hundreds of wealthy guests wearing embroidered eye masks and designer tuxedos.

I stood near the edge of the room with a small notepad and a glass of untouched champagne, my eyes scanning the crowd.

Then the room seemed to shift.

The low hum of conversation softened near the grand entrance. People stepped back, creating a natural path without even realizing it.

Gabriel Marchetti had arrived.

Seeing him in news photographs didn't prepare me for the physical reality of the man. He was taller than I expected, broad-shouldered in a tailored charcoal tuxedo. He didn't wear a mask like the other guests; his face was fully bare, exposing sharp, sculpted cheekbones, a shadow of stubble along a hard jawline, and eyes as dark and cold as storm clouds.

He didn't look around for approval. He moved with the quiet, absolute authority of a man who owned the air everyone else was breathing.

My chest tightened. My pulse spiked, a sudden wave of heat washing over my skin. This was the man who had destroyed my family. This was the man I had been flirtatiously texting for days.

As if feeling the weight of my gaze, Gabriel turned his head.

Across thirty feet of polished marble floor, his eyes locked onto mine.

I froze. A sudden bolt of terror clutched my spine. For a second, I thought he knew. But then I remembered where I was. I was wearing a red dress, holding a press badge, and staring at the host of the party. To him, I was just another pushy journalist trying to get a look at the city's most feared billionaire.

I forced myself to pull my eyes away and take a slow sip of champagne.

"Excuse me, Miss Cole."

The deep, velvety voice came from directly beside me.

I jumped, almost spilling my drink. Gabriel was standing less than two feet away. He had crossed the room so silently I hadn't even heard his footsteps. Up close, his presence was overwhelming. He smelled faintly of expensive cedarwood, leather, and rain.

"Mr. Marchetti," I said, forcing my voice to stay level, professional, and cool. "I didn't expect the host to wander over to the press corner."

"I prefer to keep an eye on things that draw my interest," he said, his dark eyes trailing slowly over my face before resting on my press badge. "Azeelia Cole. The City Chronicle."

"Just here to cover the charity work," I said politely. "Though I am surprised to see so many city council members here tonight. I didn't realize the Marchetti Foundation had such deep political connections."

It was a sharp jab, a subtle hint at his corrupt influence.

Instead of taking offense, Gabriel’s lips tilted into a faint, dark smirk. "Every major project requires strong foundation work, Miss Cole. Don't you agree?"

"Some foundations are built on blood and bad money, Mr. Marchetti. Eventually, the building collapses."

"Only if the builder is weak," he replied softly, stepping an inch closer. The heat radiating off him made my skin prickle under my dress. "And I assure you, I am not weak."

He leaned down slightly, his mouth hovering near my ear.

"Careful, little reporter," he murmured, his voice dropping into a low, dangerous purr. "Dangerous is a matter of perspective."

My breath hitched in my throat. Every drop of blood in my body seemed to turn to ice.

Dangerous is a matter of perspective.

Those were the exact words Viper_00 had sent me in our text chat yesterday.

I stared at him, my heart hammering like a war drum against my ribs. Did he just use that phrase by accident? Was it just a common idiom for him? I searched his face for any sign of recognition, but his expression was a mask of calm, polite amusement.

It's a coincidence, I told myself frantically. It has to be. He uses that line on everyone.

"Are you alright, Miss Cole?" he asked, tilting his head. "You look as though you've seen a ghost."

"I'm fine," I choked out, taking a small step back to put space between us. "You just... sound very confident for a man with so many enemies."

Gabriel laughed softly. It was a dark, low sound that sent a strange, unwanted shiver down my spine. "You seem remarkably determined to dislike me, Miss Cole. We've only just met."

"Some men deserve to be hated," I said, staring directly into his grey eyes with all the venom I had been carrying for three years. "No matter how expensive their suits are."

For a moment, the atmosphere between us stretched paper-thin. A normal man would have been offended or threatened.

Gabriel simply smiled. It was a breathtaking, terrifying smile that made his dark eyes gleam with genuine fascination.

"A sharp mouth and a brave heart," he murmured, taking a slow step back and buttoning his tuxedo jacket. "Enjoy the evening, Azeelia. I have a feeling we will be seeing a lot more of each other."

He turned and walked away into the sea of guests, leaving me standing alone near the pillars, my hands trembling so hard I had to set my glass down on a passing waiter's tray.

POV: Azeelia Cole

I fled the gala early.

By midnight, I was back in the safety of my dark, cramped apartment. I peeled off my red dress, threw on an oversized t-shirt, and collapsed onto my couch with a bottle of water. My mind was a chaotic mess. The image of Gabriel standing over me, smelling like expensive cologne and looking through me with those piercing eyes, was burned into my brain.

I pulled out my burner phone. The screen lit up instantly with a pending message from the encrypted app.

Viper_00: How was your evening, Scarlet? You've been quiet all night.

My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I needed to re-establish the dynamic. I needed Scarlet to be the cool, distant temptress, far away from the rattled journalist who had stood in his ballroom three hours ago.

Scarlet: Quiet. I stayed home tonight. A bath, a glass of wine, and my own thoughts.

I hit send and leaned my head back against the cushion, closing my eyes. I was playing a dangerous game, but I was still in control. He didn't know. He couldn't possibly know.

A second later, the phone vibrated in my hand.

I opened my eyes and looked down at the screen.

Viper_00: Interesting. I could have sworn I saw you wearing red tonight.