"You're in the Mafia, aren't you?" I wished again that I had a pen and paper. "We don't like to use labels. But I am the Mafia, tesoro." ~*~ "You're threatening me." "If that's how you choose to take it. I was simply pointing out to you that I know where you live, where your family lives, the paper you write for, the shops you frequent. We know everything there is to know about you. We've just become very, very close." "Indeed we have." I croaked, my throat suddenly feeling very dry and tight. "Except I know almost nothing about you, and all of this." "Si. It's better that way." He said, standing up straight. ~*~ Miss wanna-be journalist, Cassandra Thorne, would do anything for the scoop. Anything, including finding her way into an underground club exclusive to only those in the Cartel Mafia and the beautiful women they employ. What could be more perfect? She would stick to the shadows, record a few videos, and write the biggest story New York has ever seen, thereby making her a legend. Easy as pie. Until she got found out. A series of blatant lies and luck breaks later, and she's mistaken for one of the workers underneath. While many might be terrified of this, Cassandra couldn't be more excited. The freedom to roam the area and talk to all the members of the infamous brotherhood will leave no rock unturned. All she had to do was keep her cover until the night is over and the workers go home. But there were just two problems: One was him, Christiano Moretti. The Don. The Godfather. The one damned man who had taken a keen interest in Cassandra. Even that was something she could handle for one night. Except for problem number two: They don't leave. Not at the end of the night, the end of the week, or even the end of the year. By the time Cassandra realized that not even the biggest scoop is worth the price, she was in far too deep to call it quits now.

Chapter 1 Anything for the scoop.

CASSANDRA

~*~

Anything for the scoop. That should be my motto. I was a budding journalist, and in my eyes, there was no such thing as going too far. The bolder and more crazy the story, the more I wanted to be the one to cover it. The more dangerous the situation, the bigger the headline. I couldn't care less about the payout, I was in it for the story. My name would someday be a household name.

I was a reporter, there was no distance I wouldn't go. No rock I wouldn't turn. I would get that scoop. And someday, I would be the most sought-after journalist there was...

Someday.

Today, unfortunately, was not that day. Today? Well, today, I couldn't afford to buy a pack of cigars from this stupid imported store I was standing in.

"I'm sorry?" I rolled my eyes, "The rumors, that this establishment is somehow connected to one of the five families?"

"The...what?"

"The five families! The five original Italian American Mafia crime families of New York! The five families that have dominated organized crimes in the United States since the late thirties! The-"

"Early thirties," He interrupted.

"AH HA!" I gasped, "So you have heard of them. Tell me, who is your business coo hoots with?" I leaned across the counter further forcing the recorder closer to him. "Is it the Gambinos? No, no, I'll bet it's the Genovese. No! The Bonanno!"

"It's not my store. I just work here." He said, putting his hands up submissively.

I frowned, "Listen-" I glanced at his hand tag and then back to his face. "Pete, if you know something you need to talk. Not only would you be obstructing the Law if you didn't, but imagine how great your life would be if you did. I mean, if you helped uncover something like this-"

"If anyone uncovered anything to do with any mafia, they'd be a dead man."

He had a point there.

I pulled the recorder away. "I'm not getting anything from you, am I?" I asked with a sigh.

He smiled, seeming partially sympathetic to my struggle, and shook his head. " Sorry, love, there's no story here."

I sighed, "Are you suuuuuuure?" I put on my best flirtatious face.

"Positive."

I pressed the stop button on my recorder, "Fine. Can I at least use the bathroom before I go?" I grumbled.

He smiled politely and pointed me in the direction of the bathroom.

I made my way to the restroom, I didn't even have to go, I was hoping that maybe there'd be some interesting pictures or something along the hallway or in the bathroom, a face that I could trace. The owner of this building leads to that building leads to... and so on. But nothing. I was feeling frustrated now.

I was sick of reporting dead-end stories. I didn't even have a paper I worked for. I haven't earned that yet. Yes, I was still stuck doing freelance, along with every other wannabe out here. If I wrote it, and they liked it, I was in. But that meant it had to be better than everyone else's, and if it was a story their own company was covering, then it was useless. Finding my stories was essentially my only hope now.

I picked up the stupid swan dish with individually wrapped mints in it, scoffed, and slammed it back down. "Ridiculous!" I muttered. I pulled out a tube of ruby-red lipstick and applied a thin coat over my lips. I had time to kill in here. I had just smacked my lips when I started hearing a ruckus.

A loud ruckus.

The kind of ruckus you generally hear from guns. Plenty of guns. The building was being shot up? Oh yes, definitely mafia-related ties here. But that would have to wait. I dove into a stall and jumped up onto the seat, so my feet would disappear. And then? The reporter in me pulled her cell phone on and hit the record button.

Holy shit.

I was in the middle of a shooting. If I survived this, I would have inside footage! Well, inside the bathroom footage anyway.

The sounds of the continuous rounds stopped, and the bathroom door came open with a slam. The normal human being and terrified woman in me wanted to let out a shrill scream, but I remained completely mute, even when whoever had entered started firing off in the room. Bullets came through the bathroom stall, they seemed to never stop coming. I was covering my head with both of my arms and chewing my cheek so hard to keep from screaming that I could taste blood from them.

After what was probably a couple of seconds of open firing across the whole bathroom, the room was quiet. And then, I heard footsteps.

'Oh, fuck. Oh! shit. Oh, God!. Oh! Damn. Oh, no. Oh, hell. Oh, I'm going to die- I thought frantically in my head. I heard the door of the stall beside me get kicked open, and then silence. I had left my lipstick on the counter! Fucker. Fucking fucker! More footsteps. I pointed my phone camera towards my stall door, my hands were shaking so badly, but I was ready to capture him when he came. Not that anyone would ever see this.

The stall next to my own was kicked violently open. 'Oh hell' After a few moments of silence, I swallowed the lump in my throat. This was it. I was going to die. And I did t even get the story. I saw his shoe from under the stall, I held my breath as he took a step forward.

"Sbrigati, sprigati!" I heard someone yelling. "Andiamo! Polizia!"

("Hurry, hurry! Let's go! Police!")

"Figlo di puttana. Si arrivo." He groaned madly, suddenly the feet in my line of vision were retreating. Feet and voices I had on camera!

Holy damn!

("Son of a bitch. I'm coming.")

I stayed holed up in the bathroom for what felt like three eternities before finally bringing my still-shaking feet to the floor. I turned back to look at the holes in the stall, the stall that I had just been leaning against. How had they missed me? He knew what he was doing, the bullets were not in a straight line, Oh no. They were high, low, right, left, and somehow, no one had touched me.

Someone was on my side tonight, and I wasn't going to let that go to waste. I was going to get my scoop.

While still wielding my phone set to record, I made my way out of the bathroom.

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