Alessia Moretti

Isabella’s (Alessia’s) POV

"...Ed ora, le ultime notizie sulla tragedia che ha scosso il mondo degli affari a New York," the news anchor said, her voice smooth and professional. "La polizia conferma che il corpo ritrovato nel relitto dell'auto sulla scogliera è di Isabella Santiago. Il marito, il magnate Mateo Santiago, è stato visto lasciare la scena in uno stato di shock totale..."

(Translation: And now, the latest news on the tragedy that has shaken the New York business world. Police confirm the body found in the car wreckage on the cliff is Isabella Santiago. The husband, mogul Mateo Santiago, was seen leaving the scene in a state of total shock...)

I watched the screen from my small apartment in Trastevere, Rome that Irene rented for me.

On the laptop, I saw the footage of silver car at the bottom of the ravine. Irene had hired a driver for it. He drove the car to the cliff, set the fire, and jumped clear just before it went over. By the time the fire rose, he was already gone.

Suddenly, camera zoomed in on a man kneeling in the dirt. Mateo. He looked broken, watching a body on a stretcher.

Irene hired men who bought the body from a black-market morgue, a woman who had died of natural causes and had no family to claim her. They had placed my ring on her finger.

I had given Mateo a body to mourn.

I felt a cold shiver run down my spine, but not sadness. My heart had died the same night Elena did. This was just the burial.

"Happy Birthday, Mateo," I whispered to the screen. "Do you like your gift?"

"Close the laptop, Alessia. It's not good for the baby." A voice snapped.

I had a new name here. A new location. A new life. I had cut my long hair and dyed it to deep red.

I was Alessia Moretti now. That's who I had been for the last three months.

Irene walked into the room, looking like a dream from a classic Italian film. She was wearing a silk robe, her dark hair tossed over one shoulder, and a cigarette dangling from her red lips.

Being half-Italian, she fit into Rome like she owned the city. She kinda did. She had a contact list that reached into the darkest corners of Europe.

"Is it done?" I asked her.

"The dental records match," Irene said, blowing a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. "The morgue Jane Doe is now the late Mrs. Santiago. You’re officially dead, cara. Welcome to the afterlife."

“He looks… destroyed.” I told her.

“He is destroyed, Alessia.” Irene corrected me. “You gave him the one thing he couldn’t buy: a guilty conscience.”

I looked down at my stomach. It was still flat, but I could feel the life there. A tiny heartbeat that was mine alone.

“I checked the account this morning, Irene.” I said. "I'm running out of money, Irene. Between the bribes, the fake body, and the flight, I’ve spent almost everything I took from the jeweler.”

Irene sighed, leaning against the doorframe. "Relax. You just died. Take a day to enjoy being a widow."

"I can't. I have a baby to feed," I said, touching my stomach. "The cash is low. I need a job. You told me about a seaside cafe, can you talk with the owner for me?”

Irene cursed in Italian under her breath. "Dannazione." She held the cigarette between her fingers as she pulled out her phone and swiped through a few files. "You need a job. Not some bullshit.”

She turned the phone toward me. A logo appeared. It was a sleek, minimalist ‘I’ wrapped in a circle of stylized flames.

Inferno Tech.

"Is it the infamous Inferno?” I almost gasped.

She nodded. “They weren't just a tech company. They were the digital backbone of the Mediterranean underworld. Their CEO... they call him L'Oscuro. The Dark One. Dante Galante. The good news? They are hiring.”

“They don't hire people like me." I said bitterly. "Isabella Santiago is a dead NYU socialite. Alessia Moretti is a nobody from a village in Sicily who doesn't exist on LinkedIn."

Irene smirked, tapping ash into a crystal tray. "You aren't a nobody. You are the bitch who hacked the Santiago payroll for months without getting caught.”

I looked back at the screen. The website was terrifying. All black, with a pulsing red flame logo.

“Even if I am a good with laptops, the HR won't bother.” I sighed as I looked at the requirements. They wanted a PhD from MIT, fifteen years of experience, and a list of certifications I couldn't even pronounce.

"I will never get past the first filter. They probably use an AI to reject resumes that don't have the right keywords."

Irene didn't look worried. She reached into the pocket of her silk robe and pulled out a black keycard. She tossed it onto the laptop.

"You don't need to pass a filter." Irene smirked. "I have been working in the Administrative wing of the Inferno Group for six months. I handle the payroll and the 'discreet' contracts. Weeks ago, I told the department head I have a cousin from the south. That she is a brilliant, quiet girl who needs to get away from a bad situation."

I stared at the card in awe. "You are serious? You got me in?"

"It’s an entry-level analyst position in the Security Operations Center." Irene explained. "The salary isn't what you are used to as a billionaire's wife, but it’s more than enough for this apartment and a private doctor for the little one. And the best part? The Inferno Group doesn't report to the government. They don't give a damn about taxes or official records. They keep their own books."

My heart began to race. I couldn't be more grateful to her.

“Dante Galante." I whispered, remembering the name she had mentioned. "If he is as 'dark' as they say, won't he find out about me?"

Irene tilted her head, moving the cigar away from her lips. "Galante’s office on the top floor. He doesn't care about his employees. He specially doesn't care about entry-level analysts. But that doesn't mean, you can be careless."

I picked up the keycard. "When do I start?" I asked.

“Tomorrow.” Irene said. “And pray Dante Galante never learns your real name.”