I stare at the dashboard, my mind racing through possibilities.
Dad sounded frazzled, if that’s even the right word and Matteo DeLuca isneverfrazzled.
“Alessandro.” My voice comes out smaller than I intended. “What’s going on?”
He reaches over and squeezes my hand briefly, the contact sending electricity up my arm. “Whatever it is, we’ll handle it.”
I want to ask more questions, but his phone starts buzzing with notifications.
Text after text after text, the sounds overlapping until it’s almost constant.
My own phone starts doing the same thing, messages flooding in from classmates, acquaintances, even people I barely know.
With growing dread, I pull up my messages. The first one is from a friend:Holy shit, B. Is this real???
Attached is a link to a news article. My stomach drops as I read the headline:Leaked Documents Reveal DeLuca’s Criminal Empire: FBI Files Expose Decades of Violence and Corruption.
“Fuck,” Alessandro breathes, clearly reading his own messages.
I tap the link with shaking fingers. The article is from the New York Times, posted less than an hour ago.
There are photos—old surveillance shots of Giuseppe that I recognize from family albums, FBI documents with names and dates, financial records that trace money through shell companies I’ve never heard of.
This isn’t just bad publicity anymore.
This is official federal evidence splashed across every major news outlet in the country.
My normal college life, my carefully maintained anonymity—all of that just disappeared.
Every reporter in New York is probably already digging through our family’s history, looking for more dirt.
Every federal agent who worked these cases is getting calls from their superiors asking about current investigations.
Fuck fuckfuck.
My grandfather’s name is trending on Twitter.
Giuseppe DeLuca, the man who built our family’s empire, whose legacy Dad has spent years carefully maintaining and modernizing, is suddenly all over social media with official FBI documentation attached.
College kids are posting screenshots of surveillance photos.
True crime podcasters are probably already recording emergency episodes with actual federal evidence to back up their theories.
“This is bad,” I whisper, scrolling through more articles as they pop up. CNN, Fox News, the Washington Post—everyone is picking up the story.
Alessandro’s jaw is granite as he navigates through increasingly heavy traffic. “It’s worse than bad. Someone leaked classified FBI files. This isn’t speculation anymore—it’s official federal evidence. Every agency that worked these cases is going to be under pressure to reopen investigations.”
It hits me like getting punched in the gut.
People gossiping about our family is one thing—but seeing the FBI’s evidence blasted all over every major news site?
That’s a whole different level.
You don’t just walk away from that kind of exposure. It brings heat from everywhere—cops, reporters, people who suddenly think they know everything.
“Who would do this?” I ask, though I’m not sure I want to hear the answer.
“Someone with access to federal files and a reason to want the DeLucas exposed.” Alessandro’s voice is measured, as if he was trying to find the right words. “The question is whether this is random or if the DeLucas are being specifically targeted.”
