But I dug deeper.
Property records showed Luca's penthouse was purchased eight years ago for cash. No mortgage, no paper trail of where the money came from. Before that, no real estate holdings in his name at all.
Corporate filings showed him listed as COO of Vitale Holdings since its incorporation. But before that? Nothing. No previous employment, no educational records, no history.
It was like Luca Romano had sprung into existence fully formed and immediately stepped into a high-level position in what everyone suspected was an organized crime front.
I found one photograph from before the this current era. Buried in an old newspaper article about a charity boxingmatch fundraiser from twelve years ago. The caption identified "Local competitors including Luca Romano" in a group photo of fighters.
The man in the photo barely resembled the Luca I knew. Same face but harder, younger, hungrier. He wore a tank top that showed arms covered in bruises and cuts. His hair was longer, unstyled. No expensive suit, no careful smile, no calculated charm. Just a young man who looked like he'd fought his way up from nothing and wasn't done fighting yet.
I stared at that photograph for a long time, trying to reconcile it with the polished businessman who'd fucked me against his desk while wearing a three-piece suit.
"Someone who doesn't exist anymore."
That's what he'd said when I'd asked who he'd been before his current self. Looking at this photograph, I understood what he meant. That young fighter had been buried under layers of performance and persona. Suffocated by the role Luca had created to survive in the world he'd chosen.
But he was still in there. I'd seen glimpses of him—in moments of vulnerability, in the heat of passion, in the crack in his facade when he'd admitted he wanted me.
The real Luca existed somewhere beneath the polish. And for reasons I couldn't fully explain, I wanted to find him.
Tuesday night I got an email from Agent Reeves requesting a meeting. Professional, courteous, with just enough implied pressure to make it clear refusing wasn't really an option. I responded saying I'd be available next week, buying myself time.
Wednesday afternoon I wrote a story that had nothing to do with Luca. Local corruption in the school board, something I'd been investigating on my own for months. Small-scale compared to the Bianchi and Rodriguez exposés, but it was mine. Research I'd done, sources I'd cultivated, work I'd earned.
I submitted it to a local paper and felt a flicker of pride when they accepted it immediately.
Proof. That's what it was. Proof that I was still a real journalist when I wasn't taking Luca's handouts.
Wednesday night I stood in front of my closet trying to figure out what to wear to meet a mobster who'd coerced me and fucked me and offered me freedom all in the span of two months.
I settled on dark jeans and a button-down shirt—nice enough to show I'd made an effort but not so formal it looked like I was trying too hard. Boots instead of sneakers. A light jacket because October evenings were getting cold.
Then I stood in front of the mirror and practiced looking like I had my shit together.
Failed miserably.
My phone buzzed. Text from Luca:Looking forward to tonight. The address is 847 West 28th Street, top floor. Security will let you up.
Not his office. His actual residence. His private space.
I typed:I'll be there.
Then deleted it and wrote:See you at 8.
Professional. Neutral. Like this was a business meeting and not... whatever this actually was.
I left my apartment at 7:15, giving myself plenty of time to get there and plenty of opportunity to chicken out. Took the subway to Manhattan, emerged into the cool evening air, and started walking.
The building was exactly what I'd expected: modern, expensive, the kind of place that cost more per month than I made in a year. Security in the lobby checked my ID against a list and waved me toward the private elevator.
"Top floor, Mr. Russo. Mr. Romano is expecting you."
The elevator was all mirrors and polished steel. I watched my reflection during the ascent and tried to convince myself Ilooked calm. Collected. Like a person who knew what they were doing.
The doors opened directly into a penthouse foyer.
And there was Luca.
