But Luca was good at making things feel real. That was his gift. He could make anyone believe anything.
My phone buzzed. I grabbed it immediately, heart racing.
Just a spam email. Not Luca.
I threw the phone across the bed in frustration.
What did I expect? That he'd text me the morning after to check if I was okay? We weren't dating. We weren't anything. We were... what? I didn't even know anymore.
Two months ago I would have said he was my blackmailer. My coercer. The criminal who'd forced me into compliance by threatening everything I'd worked for.
Yesterday I would have said he was my complicated arrangement. The source I hated and wanted in equal measure.
Last night he'd become something else entirely. Something I didn't have words for yet.
I got up and headed for the shower, desperate to wash away the confusion even though I knew water wouldn't help. Under the spray, I carefully avoided touching the marks. Didn't want to wish them away yet even though I should. Even though I'd need to figure out how to hide them before I went anywhere public.
Evidence. That's what they were. Physical proof that whatever Luca and I were doing had crossed a line from professional manipulation into something far more dangerous.
After the shower, I pulled on sweatpants and an old t-shirt—the softest clothes I owned because my skin felt hypersensitive. Made coffee even though it was almost four in the afternoon. Stood at my kitchen window looking out at Brooklyn and trying to figure out what the fuck I was going to do.
Come back next week.
He'd said that. Given me a timeline. A choice.
If I didn't go back, what happened? Would he actually let me walk away? Or would the threats return? Would he destroy my reputation like he'd originally promised if I didn't fall in line?
"If that's what you want, yes."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that offer of freedom had been genuine. But belief required trust, and I didn't trust Luca Romano. Couldn't trust him. He'd proven exactly what he was capable of when he'd shown up at my apartment and backed me against my own kitchen counter with threats and expensive cologne and those dark eyes that saw too much.
But he'd also let me go last night. Could have kept me there, in his office, in his control. Could have demanded I stay. Instead he'd stepped back and given me space to leave.
That had to mean something.
My phone rang and I nearly dropped my coffee mug.
Unknown number. I answered anyway, half hoping it was Luca from a different line. "Hello?"
"Valentino Russo?" Male voice. Professional. Unfamiliar.
"Speaking."
"This is Agent David Reeves, FBI. I was hoping you'd have a few minutes to meet with me. I have some questions about your recent work."
My blood went cold. FBI. Asking about my work.
"What kind of questions?" I kept my voice level even though my pulse was racing.
"Nothing to worry about. Just routine follow-up on some stories you've published. The Rodriguez exposé in particular caught our attention. Excellent work, by the way."
The Rodriguez story. The one Luca had handed me. The one that had been too good, too thoroughly sourced, too perfect.
"I'm happy to answer questions," I said carefully. "But I'd prefer to do it through official channels. Email me at my professional address and we can set something up."
"Of course. I'll be in touch." A pause. "One more thing—do you have any professional relationship with the Vitale organization? Inferno nightclub specifically?"
The question hit like a physical blow. He knew. Somehow he knew.
