"And," Matteo added, "you volunteered to 'handle' him within thirty seconds of learning he'd filmed the raid. Before any of us could even suggest alternatives. That's not strategic thinking. That's personal interest."
Elio leaned forward. "The question isn't whether you're interested in him. Obviously you are. The question is what you're going to do about it."
"Nothing," I said. "He's an asset. That's all."
"Then you're an idiot." Matteo's bluntness was characteristic. "Don't make my mistakes. If you want him, actually want him, then do something about it. But if this is just about control and power, let him go before you destroy him."
"I'm not going to destroy him—"
"You already are." Julian's voice was quiet. "Every day you keep him in this arrangement, you're destroying a piece of who he is. His integrity. His principles. The things that made him who he was. I know what that feels like. It's why I ran."
The words hit harder than they should have. I thought about Valentino in his cramped Brooklyn apartment, surrounded by research and principles he'd compromised for me. Thought about the way he looked at me—hatred and hunger in equal measure. Thought about the fact that I'd been checking his published work compulsively for weeks.
"What did you want me to do?" I asked. "Let him publish the raid footage? Let him expose us?"
"No," Sandro said. "We want you to be honest about what this is. If he's just an asset, treat him like one. Keep him at arm's length. Don't get involved beyond the transactional. But if he's more than that, admit it. To yourself at minimum. And then figure out what you actually want."
What I wanted.
I wanted Valentino in ways that went beyond useful. Wanted to hear his voice, see his articles, watch him work. Wanted to strip away his defiance and find the person underneath. Wanted him to look at me with something other than resentment.
Wanted him to choose me instead of capitulating to me.
"I have him coming to my office tonight," I said.
"For?" Elio prompted.
"To discuss his next assignment."
"Luca." Sandro's voice was patient. "What do you actually want from tonight?"
I didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because the truth was I didn't know anymore where the control ended and the wanting began.
I left Sandro's estate at 7:30, giving myself just enough time to get back to Inferno before eight. The drive should have been calming. Instead my mind wouldn't stop replaying the dinner conversation.
If you want him, do something about it.
You're destroying him.
Be honest about what this is.
The problem was I didn't know what this was. Valentino had started as a practical problem—a journalist with damaging footage who needed to be neutralized. I'd approached it strategically: identify his vulnerability (career and reputation), apply appropriate pressure, secure compliance.
Standard procedure. Nothing personal.
Except somewhere in the past two months it had become personal. I found myself thinking about him at odd moments. Wondering what he was working on. Whether he was eating properly—the weight loss I'd noticed in our last meeting suggested he wasn't. Whether he slept or if he lay awake cataloging his compromises the way I suspected.
I parked in Inferno's private garage and took the elevator to my office. Checked my reflection in the mirrored walls. The suit was perfect—Armani, burgundy tie, everything precisely tailored. The costume was flawless.
Underneath it I felt like a fraud.
My office was dark when I arrived. I turned on the lamps, bypassing the harsh overhead lighting in favor of the warm ambient glow that made the space feel less corporate. Checked that the door was locked. Poured myself two fingers of bourbon from the bar cart and waited.
At 8:02, my phone buzzed. Text from security:Valentino Russo here to see you.
Send him up.
I stood near the windows overlooking the main floor of Inferno. Sunday night crowd was thin—the club didn't really come alive until Thursday. A few regulars at the bar. Couples in the VIP sections. Music pulsing through the space like a heartbeat.
