I can meet with you this Thursday. Please let me know the time and location that works for your schedule. I'm happy to answer any questions you have about my professional work.
Best,Valentino Russo
I showed it to Luca before sending. "Too confrontational?"
"No. Professional. Appropriate." He read it again. "But you're really doing this. Thursday."
"Thursday." I hit send before I could second-guess myself. "And now we prepare."
Reeves responded within an hour:Thursday 2 PM, FBI New York Field Office, 26 Federal Plaza. Bring ID. This is voluntary but appreciated.
The formal language didn't hide the threat underneath. This was voluntary until it wasn't. If I didn't come willingly, he'd find ways to compel me.
I showed Luca the response and watched him process it. His jaw tightened but he didn't argue or try to talk me out of it.
"I'll text Emilio," he said. "Have him call you tomorrow. He'll prep you on what to say."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. This is my fault. If I hadn't—" He stopped. "You're in this position because of me."
"I'm in this position because I made choices. I deleted footage. I accepted your stories. I fell for you." I moved closer. "You don't get to take all the responsibility."
"I wish I could. I wish I could protect you from all of this."
"I know. But I need to do this myself. Need to prove I can handle it."
We stayed at my apartment until late evening. By the time we headed back to Manhattan, I felt more grounded. Like I'd reconnected with the version of myself that existed outside Luca's orbit. That was important. I couldn't lose myself completely in this relationship no matter how much I wanted to.
The next three days were a carefully orchestrated dance between work, preparation, and trying not to panic about Thursday.
Tuesday, Emilio called me. He was exactly what I'd expected—sharp, professional, completely competent. He spent two hours on the phone walking me through what Reeves would likely ask and how to answer.
"Don't volunteer information. Answer the specific question asked and nothing more. If he asks about your relationship with Luca, acknowledge you know him professionally. Don't elaborate."
"And if he asks directly if we're sleeping together?"
"Tell him your personal life is not relevant to his investigation. If he pushes, tell him you want counsel present before answering personal questions."
"Will that make me look guilty?"
"It will make you look smart. Never answer personal questions to federal agents without a lawyer present." His voice was firm. "Valentino, I'm serious. Reeves is fishing. Don't give him anything to use."
Wednesday I met with sources for my school board investigation. The story was good—really good—and completely independent of Luca. Proof that I could still do real journalism. That I wasn't just his puppet journalist.
One source, an elementary school teacher who'd witnessed budget irregularities, asked if I was okay.
"You seem stressed," she said.
"Just a lot going on. But I'm fine."
"The Rodriguez story was incredible. You're really making a name for yourself."
The compliment should have felt good. Instead it just reminded me that my "name" was partially built on information Luca had provided. But this story—this investigation into school board corruption—was all mine. My sources, my research, my work.
That mattered.
Wednesday night I stayed at the penthouse with Luca. We ordered takeout and pretended tomorrow wasn't looming over us. Watched a movie neither of us paid attention to. Went to bed early even though neither of us could sleep.
