"That's not my problem." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I'm a journalist. I report what I see."
"You're a journalist I've given a very good story in the past." Luca was close enough now that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and dark that made me think of smoke and leather. "You've built your reputation on information I gave you. Information that wasn't free."
"You said—"
"I said I wanted the Bianchis exposed. You did that beautifully. Thank you." His smile was sharp, nothing warm about it. "Now I want something in return. Delete the footage. Forget about the raid. Move on to other stories."
"And if I don't?" I tried to sound defiant. Tried to channel every principle I'd learned in journalism school about speaking truth to power.
Luca leaned in, one hand braced on the counter beside my hip, caging me in. "Then I make some calls. Spread some rumors. Suggest to the right people that maybe Valentino Russo isn't as ethical as everyone thinks. Maybe he fabricates sources. Maybe he pays for quotes. Maybe he sleeps with subjects to get information."
The words hit like a physical blow. "That's all lies."
"Doesn't matter. Doubt is enough. Once people start questioning your integrity, your career is over." His dark eyes held mine. "I can destroy your reputation with three phone calls. Make sure you never publish anything that matters again. Or..."
"Or?" I hated how breathless I sounded.
"Or you work with me. I'll keep feeding you stories—real stories, legitimate exposés worth publishing. You'll win more awards than you dreamed of. Build a career that actually means something. All you have to do is kill the stories I tell you to kill. Starting with the raid footage."
My hands gripped the counter edge behind me hard enough to hurt. "You're blackmailing me."
"I'm offering you a deal. A partnership." He reached up and tucked a strand of my curly hair behind my ear, the gesture almost tender except for the threat behind it. "You get exclusiveaccess to the kind of sources that make Pulitzer nominations. I get a journalist I can trust to be... selective about what he publishes."
"That's not journalism. That's propaganda."
"Call it whatever helps you sleep at night." His hand dropped away. "You've got twenty-four hours to decide. Delete the footage and we have a deal. Publish it and I bury you."
He'd walked toward the door. Paused with his hand on the knob.
"For what it's worth, I hope you make the smart choice. I'd hate to destroy someone with your talent." He'd looked back at me, and for just a second something almost like regret crossed his face. "But I will if I have to."
Then he was gone, leaving me shaking in my own apartment, his cologne still lingering in the air.
I'd spent that entire night staring at the raid footage. Weighing my options. Telling myself I'd refuse, I'd publish anyway, I wouldn't let him control me.
But I knew what my reputation meant. Knew how quickly doubt could spread in journalism circles. One accusation of fabricating sources and I'd be done. Nobody would hire me. No editor would publish my work. Everything I'd built would crumble.
At dawn, I'd deleted the footage.
All of it. Every frame. Emptied the trash, ran a secure delete program to make sure it was truly gone.
Then I'd called the number on Luca's business card and said: "It's done."
"Good choice." He'd sounded pleased. "I'll be in touch with your next story."
That had been nearly two months ago. Since then, I'd published three more exposés—all based on information Luca provided. A corrupt city councilman. A real estate developercooking books. A police chief taking bribes. All legitimate stories. All true. All given to me instead of earned.
And I'd attended four meetings with Luca where he'd told me what not to publish. Rumors about the Vitale organization. Speculation about their business practices. Anything that might hurt them.
I'd killed every story he told me to kill.
And the attraction I'd felt in that coffee shop had grown into something I couldn't control. Something I resented and craved in equal measure.
The meetings had been getting more intense. More personal. Luca asked questions that had nothing to do with journalism—about my background, my family, what I wanted from life. He shared carefully curated pieces of himself in return, though I was certain they weren't the real him. Just enough to create the illusion of intimacy.
Three nights ago, after our latest meeting, something had almost happened. I'd challenged him about a story he wanted killed—some politician with Vitale connections. "This is news. People have a right to know."
"People have a right to what I decide they have a right to." Luca had stood from behind his desk at Inferno, moved around it toward me. "You seem to keep forgetting how this arrangement works."
