I Love You, Boss

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Dear Reader,

No mafia bosses were harmed in the writing of this story.

(The operative word being: yet.)

Ready to watch Elena dismantle an empire—one Salvatore at a time?

Turn the page. It gets bloody.

And occasionally, a little unhinged. You'll love it.

Yours in red dresses and questionable decisions

— Syzygy Phoenix

P.S. Comments, reviews, and votes are basically my love language.

Don't be a stranger. 💕

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For some people, childhood is an endless spring. For Isabella Moretti, that season died in a single blink.

It ended on her twelfth birthday. In the dining room. While the osso buco was still warm.

She sat between her brother Alessandro and her mother Sophia. Her father Roberto laughed at the head of the table—the rare, unguarded kind that carved lines around his eyes. Sophia shook her head, and the room softened.

The chandelier glittered. The porcelain gleamed. Isabella thought this was oxygen. That it would always be here to breathe.

Then every window in the house shattered at once.

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The screams came first. From the kitchen. From the corridor.

Chef Amato never let go of his wooden spoon. He was mid-taste when the steel door flew off its hinges. Victor’s men didn’t say a word. Amato’s body hit the burning stove.

Samantha ran for Isabella. She made it halfway down the hall, begging on her knees. One muffled shot. The silver dessert tray hit tile now flooded red.

Outside, the security detail was already gone. Shot on sight. Victor hadn’t come to threaten. He’d come to erase.

From under her chair, Isabella watched the boots. Black. Heavy-heeled. Moving like they owned the Persian carpet her mother had bought in Milan last week.

“Roberto Moretti.”

The voice was baritone and absolute. Every nerve in Isabella’s body fired the same message: death just walked in.

“Victor.” Her father’s voice changed—sharpened into something Isabella had never heard from him before. “You weren’t invited into my home.”

Laughter followed. The kind that turned the food in her stomach to acid.

“Your home?” Victor stepped closer. “Nothing here belongs to you, Roberto. Not the house. Not that gallery. And certainly not her.”

“Don’t.” Roberto’s voice dropped to a frequency that vibrated the air. “Don’t you dare say her name.”

“Sophia.”

The name in Victor’s mouth sounded like a desecration.

“She should have been mine from the beginning. I offered her the world first.”

“And I’m the one she chose.” Roberto pulled Sophia behind his body. Cold. Measured. “Your power will never bury the fact that you’re garbage who mistook cruelty for strength.”

Alessandro’s shoulder pressed into Isabella’s. “Issa. Run. Now.”

Her feet were concrete. Alessandro grabbed her hand and dragged.

Gunshots split the air before they reached the stairs.

Someone seized the pink-ribboned braid her mother had plaited that afternoon. Isabella screamed. It was swallowed by Sophia’s cry—far worse. The woman who never broke howled like something mortally wounded.

“They’re my children! Let them go!”

Alessandro didn’t wait. He pulled. They ran. The second-floor corridor stretched like infinity.

He shoved her into the master wardrobe—between silk gowns and the mingled scents of her parents’ perfumes. His eyes were full of something no boy his age should have been asked to carry.

“Close your eyes. Cover your ears. Don’t make a sound. Do you understand me?”

She nodded. Her whole body shook.

He kissed her forehead—rough, rushed, and saturated with love.

“Stay here. I’ll come back.”

The door clicked shut.

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The wardrobe became her universe.

Dark. Warm with cashmere. Useless against what bled through the seams.

Gunshots. Her mother’s voice—prayers, sobs, and screaming knotted into one: “Alessandro! Isabella! Dio mio, i miei bambini!”

Heavy footsteps climbed the stairs. The bedroom door crashed open.

Through the gap in the wardrobe slats, Isabella watched her father being dragged in. His shirt already soaked red.

“Where are they?” Victor’s voice was calm. That was the worst part. “Where are your children, Roberto?”

Roberto spat blood on the floor. “Vaffanculo.”

“You made the wrong move. I gave you options. Keep quiet. Live your little life. But you insisted on being the hero.”

“You sell children,” Roberto rasped, refusing to yield. “And I will never—”

One shot.

Her father’s body hit the floor and went still.

Every cell in Isabella screamed to run out. To shake him awake. Trauma kept her folded small beneath the overcoats.

Sophia was dragged in. Her face shattered. Her chin still lifted.

“I loved you once.” Victor kicked Roberto’s body. “You could’ve been Signora Salvatore. The Don’s wife.”

“I would never have chosen you, Victor. Not yesterday. Not today. Not in any lifetime.”

A smile spread across his face. The kind that erased what remained of the light in the room.

His pistol rose.

The final shot tore through whatever silence was left.

From downstairs, a voice reported: “Found the boy. It’s done.”

Alessandro.

Isabella’s chest caved. The little girl who believed laughter was permanent—she died right then, buried under her mother’s gowns.

“The little one?” Victor asked.

“Haven’t found her. She’s just a kid—”

“Every Moretti is a threat.” His voice was ice. “Find her.”

Footsteps fanned through the house. One pair stopped at the wardrobe. The handle turned. A blade of light cut in.

A boy. Dark brown hair. A face that would have been handsome without the blood splattered across it.

Their eyes met. Two children inside a hell built by adults.

He held her gaze. Long enough that she could see him weighing it.

Then his lips moved.

“Clear. Nobody in here.”

He shut the door. Returned her to the dark.

“All checked, Father!”

Father. Victor.

The footsteps receded. Then silence—more suffocating than the violence itself—swallowed the Moretti Mansion whole.

Isabella Moretti was buried there without a headstone, with the echo of gunshots that would never stop ringing in her skull. Fifteen years later, she rose from that grave as Elena Cross—a weapon forged from the embers of grief.

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She had stopped placing weight in hope a long time ago. Life had taught her in the cruelest terms that hope was a foreign currency she couldn’t afford.

But shadows were faithful guests. They came every night without knocking. Her father, chest open. Her mother, eyes frozen mid-cry. Alessandro, who never came back. And always—the boy from the wardrobe. The one who chose to lie.

The laptop’s glow carved hard angles into her face. On the screen: a map of monsters she’d memorized by heart. A network inked in vengeance.

At its summit—Victor Salvatore. Below him: Lorenzo. And Dante Salvatore.

Dante’s photo filled the screen. Stolen from a Salvatore Enterprises surveillance feed. Black suit. An aura of power too calm for his age. A face designed to be trusted.

Destined to be destroyed by Elena’s own hands.

She touched the locket beneath her blouse. The only relic from the massacre. Inside it, her family was still whole—Roberto’s arm around Sophia’s waist, Alessandro mid-tease, Isabella mid-laugh.

All alive. Once.

Elena Cross closed the locket. The reason she woke at five every morning. The reason she’d sharpened herself into a weapon. The reason Isabella Moretti had to be erased from the world, so that Elena could survive inside it.

The names on the screen glowed back at her.

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Cargo Warehouse, Harbor Edge—Before Dawn

Elena moved through the shadows. No sound. No weight betrayed. Bulletproof vest under leather jacket. Pistol like an extension of muscle.

“Two at the north entrance,” Aria murmured through the earpiece. “Three inside. Primary target—Moreno—center of the room. Twenty-three life signs in the rear containers.”

“Copy. Alpha team, position?”

“Ready. Waiting on your signal.”

Through stacked containers, Elena watched Moreno—shaved head catching the overhead lights—in the middle of a clean transaction. Money. Documents. Human trafficking packaged with corporate efficiency.

Victor Salvatore’s face surfaced in her mind.

Focus.

“Execute.”

The world detonated into structured chaos. Alpha team breached from three directions. Commands and gunfire shredded the harbor’s quiet. Moreno bolted. His men reacted too fast—mole in the department, problem for another day.

Elena moved.

Left sidestep—bullet grazed her shoulder, trailing hot air. A heartbeat later, she was behind the shooter. Elbow to jaw. Crack of bone. Kick to the knee. He folded without a sound.

The second man raised his weapon. Too slow. She pivoted into his blind spot, drove her foot into his wrist, leg swept him clean.

The third was careful. Hugging shadow behind an iron container. She let her footsteps carry ahead of her—psychological warfare. When he broke cover, she was already in his blind spot. Three seconds. Done.

His arm torqued up behind his back at a punishing angle.

“Surrender. Or you lose the use of that arm permanently.”

He surrendered.

At the center, Hayes had already cuffed Moreno. The man was spitting obscenities. “You’ve got nothing! My lawyer will—”

“Twenty-three women in the back room,” Elena said. Calm. The kind that froze air. “Plus the documents you just signed.”

“Cross.” Moreno’s voice was pure hatred. “I knew it was you hunting me.”

“And I caught you. Enjoy your cell. With a victim count like this, you won’t see sunlight again.”

She turned away before he could answer.

When she cut the lock on the container, the air that spilled out carried the residue of terror. The young women inside stared at her with hollow, shaking eyes.

Elena lowered her weapon. Opened both palms.

“You’re safe. It’s over. We’re taking you home.”

A girl in the corner began to cry.

Elena let herself feel the reason. Because there should never be another little girl hiding in a wardrobe, biting her own hand to keep from screaming, while her family dies on the other side of the door.

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Precinct Headquarters—Two Hours Later

Marcus slid a cup of black coffee across the desk. Bitter and strong. Exactly like her mood.

“You all right?”

“Define all right.” Elena took a sip that burned her tongue. “Physically? Yes. Mentally?” A thin smile. “When have I ever been all right?”

Marcus sat on the edge of the desk and looked at her the way he always had—like she was still twelve, and he’d just pulled her out of the wreckage.

“Twenty-three lives made it home tonight because of you.”

“And there are thousands more. As long as the Salvatores keep breathing, this never stops.”

“We’re talking about Moreno,” Marcus said carefully. “Don’t jump straight to—”

“Victor Salvatore bankrolled that network.” Her eyes went wire-sharp. “And tonight, I’ll be in the same room as him.”

“With Dante,” Marcus corrected. “His son. The one actually holding the reins now. Word is, he’s been trying to clean the family name from operations like—”

“That’s propaganda designed to make the mafia look like saviors.” She didn’t blink. “I don’t care if Dante Salvatore opens an orphanage every day, Marcus. His last name is Salvatore. And that family owes me blood.”

Marcus went quiet. Exhausted.

“I’m only afraid you’ll realize one day that revenge will never fill the hole they left inside you.”

Elena looked at him with eyes that had lost their light a long time ago.

“Maybe not. But at least I’ll feel even.”

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Elena’s Apartment—Before the Gala

She stood at the bathroom mirror with damp hair and her gray contacts out.

Brown eyes. Her real ones. The eyes her mother used to say were the color of warm chocolate in winter.

Her mother wasn’t here to say it anymore.

Now those eyes felt foreign. Too fragile for the world she was about to walk into.

Her phone buzzed.

Aria · 7:45 PM

Reservation confirmed. Salvatore Enterprises Gala. 8 PM. You’re meeting Dante tonight. Ready to rumble, bestie? 🔪

Ready.

She’d been preparing for this moment for fifteen years. She had honed her wounds until they became her sharpest weapons. Studied every move the Salvatore family made down to the smallest detail.

This was no longer a question of readiness.

The oath to destroy the heart of the Salvatore family had taken root too deep to be uprooted by doubt.

Tonight, Isabella Moretti would come to collect her blood debt.