But I couldn't. Because Alex was talking to Reeves. And anything I said could and would be used against me.
"I'm just dealing with some personal stuff," I said carefully. "Nothing I can really talk about right now."
"Personal stuff." His expression shifted. Became more professional, more journalist-like. "Does this personal stuff have anything to do with Luca Romano?"
My blood went cold. "What?"
"Come on, Val. I'm not stupid. Your sudden string of excellent exposés, your new connections, the way you deflect every time I ask about your sources." He took a sip of his coffee. "You're involved with the Vitale organization somehow. And probably with Romano specifically."
"I have sources across multiple organizations. That's how investigative journalism works."
"Sources don't leave you looking this stressed. This scared." His voice softened. "Val, if you're in trouble—if someone's pressuring you or threatening you—you can tell me. I can help."
The genuine concern in his voice made my chest ache. He thought he was helping. Thought he was being a good friend by reaching out, by offering support.
He had no idea he was making everything worse.
"I'm not in trouble," I said firmly. "And no one's threatening me."
"Are you sure? Because there's this FBI agent—Agent Reeves—who's been asking questions about you. About your work, your sources, your connections." He watched my face carefully. "He contacted me a few weeks ago. Wanted to know if I'd noticed any changes in your behavior or your work."
"And what did you tell him?" I kept my voice level even though rage was building in my chest.
"That you'd been more successful lately. That your work had improved. That you seemed to have developed some high-level sources." He paused. "I didn't think it was a big deal. But now, seeing you like this—"
"You had no right." The words came out harsher than I'd intended. "You had no right to talk to the FBI about me without telling me."
"I was concerned—"
"You were gossiping. Feeding information to a federal agent about your friend's professional life." I stood. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
"Val, wait—"
"No. I'm done." I grabbed my jacket. "Stay away from me, Alex. And definitely stop talking to Reeves about me."
"I was trying to help—"
"You weren't helping. You were making everything worse." I headed for the door, then turned back. "We're done. Our friendship—it's done. I can't trust you anymore."
The hurt on his face should have made me feel guilty. But all I felt was anger and betrayal. He'd been feeding Reeves information. Contributing to the case being built against me. And he'd thought he was helping.
I walked out of the coffee shop and made it half a block before I had to stop and lean against a building, breathing hard, trying not to lose it on a public street.
My phone buzzed. Text from Alex:I'm sorry. I was worried about you. I didn't know I was making things worse.
I didn't respond. Just put my phone away and started walking. Needed to move, needed to process, needed to figure out how I'd lost one of my oldest friendships to this mess with the FBI.
By the time I made it back to the penthouse, I felt hollowed out. Empty. Like I'd lost something I couldn't get back.
Luca took one look at my face and pulled me into his arms. "That bad?"
"He's been talking to Reeves. Feeding him information about my work, my sources, my behavior." I held on to him. "He thought he was helping. Thought he was being concerned."
"I'm sorry."
"I told him we were done. Ended the friendship." My voice cracked. "He was one of my oldest friends and I just—I can't trust him anymore."
"I know. And I'm sorry you lost that because of me."
