Chapter 3
The city doesn’t sleep.
It just changes masks.
By morning, the rain has turned to fog, and the street outside my apartment hums with horns, engines, and impatience. I’m halfway through my third cup of coffee, wrapped in a robe and pretending the night before didn’t happen.
The photo.
The sedan.
The file that erased itself.
Maybe I am paranoid.
Or maybe I’m finally right about something dangerous.
The newsroom group chat is already alive when I open my laptop—talk of deadlines, the mayor’s press conference, and some celebrity divorce that apparently needs three editors. I scroll until I see my editor’s name.
Miles:
We need to talk about the Moretti piece. Call me.
My pulse trips. Moretti piece.
I haven’t told anyone what I found. Not even him.
I call. He answers on the first ring.
“Jesus, Isabella, you trying to start a war?”
“Good morning to you, too.”
“I just got a call from the mayor’s communications director. He says your name’s been floating around—something about investigating shell companies tied to city contracts?”
“Which means someone talked,” I say.
“Which means someone leaked.” His voice lowers. “You realize what this looks like? They’re trying to make sure we don’t publish before they do damage control. What did you find?”
I hesitate. My instinct screams to protect the story, but there’s a shake in my hands that wasn’t there yesterday. “Enough to make him nervous,” I say finally.
He swears under his breath. “Alright. Sit tight. Don’t send anything else through the office server. If this story’s as explosive as I think, we’ll go old school—meet in person, off the grid.”
“When?”
“Tonight. Eight. My place. And, Isa?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful. I don’t like the noise around this one.”
He hangs up.
I stare at the phone, unease curling low in my stomach. Noise around this one. That’s editor-speak for “people are asking questions they shouldn’t know to ask.”
By late afternoon, I’ve convinced myself to go in anyway. The newsroom’s the one place that’s ever felt like home, even when it’s chaos.
When I step off the elevator, the first thing I notice is the silence. The kind that comes when gossip travels faster than emails. Heads turn. Conversations stop mid-sentence.
“Afternoon,” I say, forcing a smile.
No one answers.
Halfway to my desk, my friend Casey intercepts me. “Isabella,” she whispers, eyes wide, “what did you do?”
I blink. “What?”
She pulls out her phone and hands it to me.
The headline glares back in bold letters:
INVESTIGATIVE JOURNALIST TARGETS MAYOR, LINKS CITY CONTRACTS TO ORGANIZED CRIME.
And below it—a grainy photo of me. Leaving the building. From last night.
My stomach drops. “Where the hell did this come from?”
“It’s everywhere. Political blogs, forums, even Reddit threads. They’re saying you’ve been feeding false information to smear the mayor.”
“I haven’t published anything yet!”
“I know,” she says softly. “But they made it sound like you did.”
The room tilts for a second. I grab the edge of my desk to stay upright. Someone leaked my investigation and spun it against me.
My phone buzzes again—another unknown number.
You should’ve stayed quiet.
No signature.
I lock the screen fast, throat tight.
“Isa?” Casey’s voice pulls me back. “Do you want me to drive you home?”
“No,” I say automatically. “I’ll be fine.”
“You’re not fine.”
“I will be.”
She hesitates, but she knows arguing is useless. She squeezes my arm, whispers, “Call me if anything feels off,” and goes back to her desk.
I try to keep working, but my brain won’t stop replaying every step I took last night. Who saw me leave? Who took that photo?
By six, I’ve had enough. I shove my notes into my bag and head for the exit, ignoring the way conversations hush as I pass.
Outside, the sky’s heavy with twilight, the air damp and metallic. I keep my head down, headphones in, but no music playing—just a trick I learned after one too many threats. If something happens, I want to hear it.
Halfway down the block, a car engine revs behind me.
Normal. Just traffic.
Another rev. Louder. Closer.
I glance over my shoulder. Black sedan. Same as before.
My heart jumps into my throat. I quicken my pace, crossing to the other side of the street. The sedan matches me.
Don’t run. Not yet.
The traffic light ahead turns red, trapping me on the corner. The sedan slows beside the curb. The passenger window rolls down just enough for a gloved hand to appear—metal flashing under the streetlight.
Gun.
Instinct takes over. I dive behind a parked car as the first shot shatters the air. The world explodes into sound—screams, glass, the high-pitched wail of a car alarm—another shot. Sparks fly off the metal inches from my shoulder.
“Get down!” someone yells from across the street.
I crawl between cars, adrenaline roaring in my ears. The sedan peels off, tires screeching as it disappears into the night.
I stay there, crouched, shaking, until the ringing in my ears fades enough to hear sirens.
A cop kneels beside me minutes later. “You okay, ma’am?”
“I—yeah, I think so.” My voice barely works.
“Did you see who it was?”
“No. Just the car.”
He scribbles something in his notepad. “You’re lucky. Looks like they missed on purpose.”
“On purpose?”
He shrugs. “Could’ve been a warning.”
The words settle in my chest like lead.
By the time they let me go, it’s dark. I refuse the offer of a patrol car and walk the rest of the way home—head up, even though my knees are still shaking.
My building looks normal from the outside. Lights on. Lobby empty.
Inside, everything feels off.
The air smells faintly of cologne that isn’t mine. The faintest trace of cigarette smoke—stale, masculine, unfamiliar.
I set my keys down quietly, heart thudding, and scan the apartment. Nothing broken. Nothing missing. Just wrong.
I walk the perimeter like it’s a crime scene—kitchen, living room, bedroom. Drawers closed but slightly misaligned. The closet door opened an inch wider than I left it.
Whoever was here didn’t take anything.
They just wanted me to know they could.
My phone buzzes.
Casey:
You okay? I saw the news about the shooting. Please tell me you weren’t near it.
My fingers shake as I type.
Me:
I’m fine. Just tired.
Casey:
You sure?
Me:
Yeah. Don’t worry.
It’s a lie. I’m anything but fine.
I turn off the lights, but the darkness feels worse. I pull the curtains tighter, slide the deadbolt across, and sit on the edge of my bed, still dressed.
My mind replays the sound of that gunshot—how close it was, how deliberate it felt.
Someone leaked my name.
Someone erased my files.
And someone just tried to put a bullet into me.
This isn’t about politics anymore.
It’s personal.
I grab the USB from the lockbox again and tuck it into the inside lining of my coat, sewing it closed with shaky fingers. My mother always said to trust my instincts—they’ve saved me more times than luck ever did.
I pour a glass of wine I won’t drink and sit by the window, watching the street below.
Cars pass. A man walks his dog. The city looks unchanged, but it feels different—like it’s watching back.
Somewhere out there, someone knows my name, my address, my routines. Someone wanted to scare me into silence.
They should’ve known better.
Fear only sharpens me.
Still, when the phone buzzes again—another unknown number—I nearly drop it.
The message reads:
Stop digging, Isabella. The Don doesn’t forgive curiosity.
The Don.
I’ve heard that title whispered in stories, in police briefings, in late-night bar gossip between reporters who drink too much.
But this is the first time it’s been aimed at me.
I stare at the message, my reflection ghosting back in the glass. The Don. Dante Moretti.
The man whose name controls half the city.
I should delete it. Forward it to the police. Tell someone.
Instead, I save it. Because that’s what I do—collect evidence, even when it terrifies me.
And as I crawl into bed, fully clothed, my last thought before sleep finally drags me under is this:
If Dante Moretti wanted me dead, I’d already be gone.
So why am I still breathing?