He left the coffee shop without looking back, moving through the crowd like he owned every space he entered. I sat there holding the folder and his business card, my heart racing for reasons I didn't want to examine.
I'd told myself it was just excitement about the story. Professional enthusiasm for good sources and solid documentation.
I'd been lying to myself even then.
Because what I remembered most vividly from that meeting wasn't the Bianchi documents or Luca's careful pitch. It was the way he'd looked at me across the table—like he was cataloging every detail, learning me, figuring out exactly how to get what he wanted. The way his hand had felt against mine, warm and strong. The expensive cologne that shouldn't have been attractive but was. The intelligence in those dark eyes that saw too much.
I'd been attracted to him from the first moment. Drawn to him despite every instinct that said Luca Romano was dangerous.
That attraction hadn't faded in the three months since. If anything, it had gotten worse.
I'd verified everything in the folder. Spent sleepless hours tracking down sources, confirming facts, building the story until it was airtight. The exposé on the Bianchi family won me a regional journalism award within a month and got picked up by national outlets.
I'd made my name exactly like Luca promised I would.
He'd called me the day the article published. "Congratulations. Excellent work."
"Thank you." I'd been riding high on success, barely aware of what I was agreeing to when he said: "I'll be in touch when I have another story for you."
Another story. More information. More exclusive access to the kind of sources that made careers.
I should have said no. Should have thanked him politely and cut contact before whatever this was could become more complicated.
Instead I'd said: "I look forward to it."
***
The FBI raid on Inferno happened on a Tuesday. I'd been across the street filming the whole thing—federal agents swarming the upscale nightclub, staff being questioned, security being handcuffed. My camera captured everything: the chaos, the fear, the visual proof that Inferno was exactly what everyone suspected it was.
A mob front hiding behind velvet ropes and bottle service.
The footage was good. Damning. Not legally incriminating—I hadn't caught anything that would hold up in court—but visually devastating. The kind of imagery that destroyed reputations and legitimate business. After the Vitale organization's RICO trial, the last thing they needed was more bad press suggesting they were still operating as organized crime.
I'd planned to publish it. Had already drafted the article in my head:Federal Raid Targets Inferno Nightclub, Vitale Organization Under Scrutiny Again.It would be another award winner. Another story that proved Valentino Russo was a serious journalist who held powerful people accountable.
I'd gotten home from filming with adrenaline still pumping, ready to start editing footage and writing copy. I’d fallen into afugue state, planning out the story, caught up in the flow of my craft.
A knock at the door jarred me out of it.
I'd looked through the peephole and felt my stomach drop.
Luca Romano stood in the hallway outside my apartment. No suit this time—dark jeans, black shirt, leather jacket. He looked less like a businessman and more like exactly what he was. Dangerous. Connected. Someone who didn't knock on your door at 2 AM unless he wanted something.
I'd opened the door because not opening it felt more dangerous than facing him.
"Mr. Russo." His voice was different than it had been at the coffee shop. Colder. The charm completely gone. "We need to talk."
"It's two in the morning."
"I know what time it is." He stepped forward and I stepped back automatically, letting him into my apartment because the alternative was having this conversation where neighbors could hear. "I know what you filmed."
My laptop was still open on the kitchen table, the raid footage paused mid-frame. Luca's eyes went to it immediately.
"You can't publish that." Not a request. A statement.
"It's newsworthy. The public has a right to—"
"I don't give a fuck about the public's right to anything." He moved closer and I backed up until I hit the counter, nowhere left to retreat. "That footage makes us look like criminals. It scares away legitimate business. It gives the FBI more justification to harass us. You publish it, you hurt people I care about."
