"Cagier. More secretive. You used to share what you were working on, bounce ideas around. Now you're locked down tight." He paused. "Where are you getting your sources, Val?"
The question hit too close to home. "I can't reveal sources. You know that."
"I'm not asking for names. I'm asking if you're being careful. Because the stories you've been publishing—they're good. Really good. But they're also suspiciously well-sourced. Like someone's handing you complete packages instead of leads you're developing yourself."
I forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to my own ears. "Are you accusing me of not doing my job?"
"I'm saying it looks convenient. You publish a story destroying the Bianchi family's reputation. Then you publish one that takes down a city councilman who happens to be a Vitale rival. The pattern is there if you know how to look."
"There's no pattern. They're both legitimate stories about corruption."
"I'm not questioning the legitimacy. I'm questioning where you're getting the information." Alex leaned forward, loweringhis voice. "Val, I'm your friend. If you're in over your head with something, you can tell me."
"I'm not in over my head."
"Then why do you look terrified?"
I met his eyes and saw genuine concern there. Alex wasn't interrogating me as a journalist. He was worried as a friend.
"I'm fine," I said again. "Just stressed about deadlines."
"Okay." He didn't believe me. I could see it in his face. "But if you need help, I'm here. Whatever it is."
We talked about other things after that—his stories, mutual friends from journalism school, industry gossip. But the conversation about my sources hung between us like a third presence at the table.
When Alex excused himself to use the bathroom, he left his phone on the table. The screen lit up with a notification and I glanced at it automatically.
A message from someone named David:Did you talk to Russo about the Vitale connection?
David. Agent David Reeves.
Alex was talking to the FBI about me.
My best friend from journalism school was feeding information to a federal agent investigating my sources.
I felt sick.
When Alex came back, I made excuses about needing to get home to work. He hugged me goodbye and told me to take care of myself, call if I needed anything. All the things a good friend would say.
While he was informing on me to the FBI.
I walked back to my apartment in a daze, trying to figure out who I could trust anymore. Luca had coerced me. The FBI was investigating me. My friend was reporting on me. I was alone in this mess and drowning.
By the time I got home, I'd made a decision.
I needed to know if Luca had been telling the truth about offering me a choice. Needed to know if I could trust anything he'd said. Because if I couldn't trust him, I had no allies left. I was completely on my own against federal investigators and former friends who'd turned informant.
But I couldn't just call him. Couldn't make it that easy.
So I did what I always did when I needed to understand something: I researched.
***
I spent Monday through Wednesday researching Luca Romano with the same thoroughness I brought to any investigative story.
Google searches turned up dozens of articles. Society page mentions of Luca at charity events, always photographed in perfectly tailored suits with that practiced smile. Business journal profiles of Inferno's success, crediting Luca's management and vision. Real estate deals, property acquisitions, all completely legitimate on paper.
The Vitale organization’s architect was everywhere, all charm and success and calculated public persona.
