But first, I needed to sleep.
I closed my eyes and tried not to think about the way Luca's hand had felt as he brushed my hair back, that night he came to threated me. The heat in his dark eyes when he'd looked at me.
Tried and failed.
Because Luca Romano was a lot of things—manipulative, controlling, dangerous—but he wasn't wrong to look at me like I was something he owned.
I was his. Had been since the moment I deleted that footage. Maybe since the moment I'd taken his folder in that coffee shop and felt the dangerous pull of wanting something I knew would destroy me.
The only question left was how much more of myself I'd give him before there was nothing left to give.
I fell asleep still dressed, still wearing shoes, my mind full of dark eyes and expensive cologne and dangerous promises and the certainty that I was falling into something I'd never climb out of.
And the worst part—the absolute worst part—was how much I wanted to fall.
CHAPTER 2: LUCA
THE ARTICLE WASperfect.
I read it for the third time, seated at my desk in Inferno's private office with afternoon light slanting through the windows. Valentino Russo had outdone himself with this one. The exposé on Councilman Rodriguez was thorough, devastating, and so carefully sourced that no lawyer in the city could find a hole in it.
"Councilman David Rodriguez's real estate empire, built on a foundation of bribery and fraud, began to crumble this week following revelations of systematic corruption spanning more than a decade. Documents obtained by this reporter show Rodriguez accepted over two million dollars in kickbacks from construction companies in exchange for fast-tracking permits and zoning variances. The scheme involved shell companies, offshore accounts, and a network of complicit city officials who profited while taxpayers footed the bill for substandard infrastructure..."
Beautiful. Precise. Exactly what I'd needed.
Rodriguez had been a thorn in our side for years—too connected to ignore, too ambitious to trust, and recently he'd been sniffing around our legitimate operations with questionsthat suggested someone was feeding him information about us. Now his career was over. By tomorrow he'd be facing federal charges. By next week, his political allies would be scrambling to distance themselves from the scandal.
And Valentino had handed it to me wrapped in journalistic integrity and award-worthy prose.
I picked up my phone and pulled up his contact. No last name, just "Valentino" with a small camera emoji I'd added as a private joke. He'd hate it if he knew.
I typed:Come to Inferno tonight. 8 PM. We need to discuss your next assignment.
Then I deleted it and tried again:Excellent work on the Rodriguez piece. Tonight, 8 PM, my office.
Still too cold. Too transactional. I deleted that too.
Finally I settled on:The Rodriguez article is exceptional. Come by tonight—I want to discuss it properly. 8 PM.
I hit send before I could overthink it further.
The three dots appeared almost immediately. Valentino was typing. Deleting. Typing again. I watched the screen with more attention than the exchange warranted.
Finally:Fine.
One word. Clipped. Resentful. Perfect.
I set the phone down and leaned back in my chair, allowing myself a moment of satisfaction. Nearly two months into our arrangement and Valentino was still fighting every step even as he gave me exactly what I wanted. The resistance was part of the appeal. Most people I dealt with either folded immediately under pressure or tried to negotiate. Valentino did neither. He capitulated when cornered but never stopped hating me for it.
That hatred was honest in ways I'd forgotten existed.
I glanced at the time: 4:46 PM. Three hours until Valentino arrived. Enough time to finish the quarterly financial reviewsand make an appearance at the dinner Sandro had texted about this morning.
My phone buzzed. Text from Sandro:Dinner at 6. Don't be late. Emilio's cooking and you know how he gets when people are tardy.
I smiled despite myself. Emilio's cooking was becoming extraordinary, but his neuroses about timing were legendary. I texted back:I'll be there. What's the occasion?
Does there need to be an occasion for dinner?
