Tied to the Mafia Don

Elena Moretti.

Elena sat in the back of the town car, scrolling through the evening’s interview note on her phone. Her own face stared from a browser window. A profile in Carriere Della sera: “Elena Moretti: The voice of Florence.”

“More like the thorn.”

Her latest expose on bid rigging in municipal constructions contracts had made her exactly zero friends in the city’s power structure.

Lucia, Elena’s bestfriend leaned back in the seat beside her, a concerned crease forming between her brows. “You’re overthinking the interview Em.”

“Cheer up. The long face isn’t doing it for me,” Lucia said, reaching into her Birkin to retrieve a necklace.

Elena shifted her gaze from Lucia’s face to the jewelry shimmering in her hand. “I’m not overthinking anything, alright? And you really don’t need to play mother every time.”

“I actually bought this for you.” Lucia replied, ignoring the jab. “It reminded me of how beautiful you are.”

“Thanks B!,” Elena’s voice softened as she leaned in, pulling Lucia into a grateful hug. “About my tone earlier---”

“No need. Just wear it for me,” Lucia interrupted, slowly sliding her hands through Elena’s back. “Consider it a lucky charm.”

“I will, B. Truly, I appreciate it.”

There was something in Lucia’s voice that sounded off and made Elena pause. But friendship meant consciousness and Lucia had been there through everything. The bankruptcy, her father’s disappearance, the nights Elena had cried through deadline pressure and imposter syndrome.

“Here,” Elena said, turning her back so Lucia could fasten the clasp. Once the weight settled against her skin, she brushed her fingers over the metal. “it’s perfect. A bit heavy though.”

“It should be Em. It’s solid gold,”

Elena’s gaze dropped, her voice losing its lightness. “My father called again today.”

Lucia’s hand stilled. “Did you answer?”

“No.”

“Three years of silence and now he calls? God…the man has some nerve,”

“He isn’t my father anymore, Lucia,” Elena countered, her voice cold. “He's just a mistake I refuse to repeat.”

Elena had spent her life running from poverty, from the shame of creditors and her father’s gambling debts. She’d built a pristine public life brick by brick from scholarships, internships to relentless work. No one except Lucia knew about the nights she spent hiding under kitchen tables while debt collectors pounded on her door.

Finally, their car pulled up to palazzo Pitti. Through the tinted windows, Elena saw red carpets, the flash of cameras and the glittering crowd. They stepped out making their way to the entrance while the security men bridged the crowd that surged towards them.

Inside, the hall was filled with dignitaries—governors and politicians. Waiters and waitresses moved drinks around conveying them to their various destinations. In the heat of the movement a waiter, male, accidentally collided into Elena spilling a large portion of the drink on her dress.

“I’m so sorry—"

“Must be hard navigating the world with your eyes closed, huh?”

“It’s alright B,” Elena stopped Lucia before she could lash out more. “I was carried away for a moment too.”

“I will order a new dress.” Elena assured Lucia as they watched the waiter speed off disappearing into the thin air.

“I'll be in the Ladies room.”

“Okay, Em.”

Elena walked past the kitchen, where caterers were busy preparing dishes. Past the refreshment hall almost to the far end of the walkway where the Ladies room stood. Her Louboutin bit into her legs but she kept on walking. But as she moved a strange noise caught her attention, sending a little shiver down her spine. But she waved away her suspicion with a shrug.

Just as Elena's hand turned the knob a hand clamped her mouth from behind, cutting off her scream before it could surface.

For added effect the hand pressed a white handkerchief over her face while Elena made muffled sounds as she kept wriggling her body.

After a few minutes of endless kicks and muffled sounds Elena's hands dropped. No sound. Just slow breath.

“Let's move.”

{---}

The first thing Elena felt was a sharp pain in her wrists. Then the taste of cloth in her mouth, rough and stale forcing her jaw wide open. She tried to move it but couldn't. She also tried to move her hands but something bit into her skin every time she pulled.

She couldn't see anything

She didn't know where she was.

Her breath came fast and shallow through her nose, the only clean air she could find. The place smelt of damp concrete and something oily, like a garage that hadn't seen sunlight in centuries. Somewhere ahead of her, water dripped. And somewhere to her left, something metal creaked.

Ohh, My God! Is this actually happening? How long have I been here?

Elena tried to move her wrists this time. But something bit immediately— not ropes, not handcuffs.

‘Zip ties?’

Ziptiers meant either professionals or amateurs pretending to be professionals. Which?

"Is she awake?" A voice echoed through the room. Male.

"Does it matter?" another replied. The voice sounded younger than the first.

"Boss wants this done tonight.”

‘Boss?’ Elena's heart hammered so hard she felt it in her temples. ‘Don't hyperventilate. We've got this girl.’

"Check the ID again," the first voice commanded. "The informant said our target would be wearing a red dress."

"She’s wearing red, isn't she?” The younger man sounded defensive. “Look at the heels—Louboutins. Those cost more than my car. It’s her."

Elena tried to scream against the gag. The sound came as a desperate, muffled—animal sound. Humiliating. She shook her head violently and the blindfold shifted just enough to let in a silver harsh light from an overhead bulb.

“Feisty,” the younger one commented. “Maybe we should—”

“We wait for the boss,” The older man cut him off. “I'm not explaining damaged goods to Don Romano.”

‘Romano?’

The name hit Elena like Ice water. She heard it whispered in court house corridors, seen it redacted in police reports. The Romano family wasn't just Florentine organised crime—they were the foundation the city was built on. Older than the Medici influence, more feared than any electrical official.

‘This is bad. This is very, very bad.’