They'd published my real name. My photo. My entire history.
Julian Bianchi, 21, son of disgraced Chicago crime boss Winston Bianchi, has been identified as the source behind a series of articles critical of FBI investigations. Bianchi, who fled his family earlier this year and is rumored to be under protection of the Vitale organization in New York, has been systematically planting stories designed to undermine federal law enforcement's credibility.
The younger Bianchi's motivations are clear: his father Winston was exposed as an FBI informant through leaked documents earlier this year. Julian Bianchi himself is believed to have provided those documents to journalists. Now, as the FBI investigates the Vitale organization, Bianchi has launched what appears to be a coordinated media campaign to discredit federal authorities.
Questions arise about whether this represents genuine whistleblowing or calculated retaliation. Legal experts suggest...
I stopped reading.
My name. My face. My connection to the Vitales. All public now. All connected to the articles I'd written.
Panic flooded through me.
My phone started buzzing. News alerts. Messages from journalism contacts asking if it was true. Requests for comment from reporters.
I turned off my phone with shaking hands.
This was bad. Really bad. I'd exposed myself. Made myself a target. Confirmed publicly that I was working with the Vitales.
Winston would see this. Dante would see this. Everyone would see this.
I pulled up Twitter again. Watched the story spread. Watched my name trend. Watched people debate whether I was a hero or a traitor.
Watched my entire life become public consumption.
My laptop pinged with an email notification.
I almost ignored it. Then saw the sender name:Inferno Security Desk
I opened it. Brief message:Package delivered for Julian Bianchi. Holding at front desk.
A package? Who would send me something at Inferno?
Dread settled in my stomach. I called the security desk.
"This is Julian Bianchi. You have a package for me?"
"Yes, sir. Courier delivery about twenty minutes ago. Want me to bring it up?"
"No. I'll come get it. Don't open it. Don't let anyone else touch it."
I grabbed my keys and headed to Inferno. The whole drive my mind raced. Who would send me something? How did they know to send it there?
At Inferno's security desk, they handed me a small padded envelope. My name written in elegant script across the front. No return address.
I opened it carefully.
Inside was a single card. Expensive cardstock. Embossed edges.
Four words written in the same elegant script:
I'm watching, little spitfire.
No signature. None needed.
Dante.
The name he'd called me when I was sixteen. When he'd tried to force himself on me. When I'd put him in the hospital.You can't fight this forever, little spitfire.
