Chapter 1 Valentino #2
I should have asked more questions. Should have demanded to know his agenda, his connection to the Bianchis, why he really wanted Winston exposed. Should have recognized this for what it was: the first move in a much longer game.
But I was twenty-five and ambitious and staring at the biggest story of my career.
"I'll need to verify everything," I said. "I won't publish anything I can't independently confirm."
"Of course. I'd expect nothing less." Luca stood, buttoning his suit jacket with practiced ease. "Take the folder. Do your due diligence. When you're ready to publish, let me know."
He handed me a business card. Expensive cardstock, minimal design. Just his name and a phone number.
"How will I reach you?" I asked.
"You won't. I'll reach you." That smile again, the one that should have been a warning. "I look forward to reading your exposé, Mr. Russo."
He left the coffee shop without looking back, moving through the crowd like he owned every space he entered. I sat there holding the folder and his business card, my heart racing for reasons I didn't want to examine.
I'd told myself it was just excitement about the story. Professional enthusiasm for good sources and solid documentation.
I'd been lying to myself even then.
Because what I remembered most vividly from that meeting wasn't the Bianchi documents or Luca's careful pitch.
It was the way he'd looked at me across the table—like he was cataloging every detail, learning me, figuring out exactly how to get what he wanted.
The way his hand had felt against mine, warm and strong.
The expensive cologne that shouldn't have been attractive but was.
The intelligence in those dark eyes that saw too much.
I'd been attracted to him from the first moment. Drawn to him despite every instinct that said Luca Romano was dangerous.
That attraction hadn't faded in the three months since. If anything, it had gotten worse.
I'd verified everything in the folder. Spent sleepless hours tracking down sources, confirming facts, building the story until it was airtight. The exposé on the Bianchi family won me a regional journalism award within a month and got picked up by national outlets.
I'd made my name exactly like Luca promised I would.
He'd called me the day the article published. "Congratulations. Excellent work."
"Thank you." I'd been riding high on success, barely aware of what I was agreeing to when he said: "I'll be in touch when I have another story for you."
Another story. More information. More exclusive access to the kind of sources that made careers.
I should have said no. Should have thanked him politely and cut contact before whatever this was could become more complicated.
Instead I'd said: "I look forward to it."
***
The FBI raid on Inferno happened on a Tuesday.
I'd been across the street filming the whole thing—federal agents swarming the upscale nightclub, staff being questioned, security being handcuffed.
My camera captured everything: the chaos, the fear, the visual proof that Inferno was exactly what everyone suspected it was.
A mob front hiding behind velvet ropes and bottle service.
The footage was good. Damning. Not legally incriminating—I hadn't caught anything that would hold up in court—but visually devastating.
The kind of imagery that destroyed reputations and legitimate business.
After the Vitale organization's RICO trial, the last thing they needed was more bad press suggesting they were still operating as organized crime.
I'd planned to publish it. Had already drafted the article in my head: Federal Raid Targets Inferno Nightclub, Vitale Organization Under Scrutiny Again. It would be another award winner. Another story that proved Valentino Russo was a serious journalist who held powerful people accountable.
I'd gotten home from filming with adrenaline still pumping, ready to start editing footage and writing copy. I’d fallen into a fugue state, planning out the story, caught up in the flow of my craft.
A knock at the door jarred me out of it.
I'd looked through the peephole and felt my stomach drop.
Luca Romano stood in the hallway outside my apartment. No suit this time—dark jeans, black shirt, leather jacket. He looked less like a businessman and more like exactly what he was. Dangerous. Connected. Someone who didn't knock on your door at 2 AM unless he wanted something.
I'd opened the door because not opening it felt more dangerous than facing him.
"Mr. Russo." His voice was different than it had been at the coffee shop. Colder. The charm completely gone. "We need to talk."
"It's two in the morning."
"I know what time it is." He stepped forward and I stepped back automatically, letting him into my apartment because the alternative was having this conversation where neighbors could hear. "I know what you filmed."
My laptop was still open on the kitchen table, the raid footage paused mid-frame. Luca's eyes went to it immediately.
"You can't publish that." Not a request. A statement.
"It's newsworthy. The public has a right to—"
"I don't give a fuck about the public's right to anything.
" He moved closer and I backed up until I hit the counter, nowhere left to retreat.
"That footage makes us look like criminals.
It scares away legitimate business. It gives the FBI more justification to harass us.
You publish it, you hurt people I care about. "
"That's not my problem." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I'm a journalist. I report what I see."
"You're a journalist I've given a very good story in the past." Luca was close enough now that I could smell his cologne—something expensive and dark that made me think of smoke and leather. "You've built your reputation on information I gave you. Information that wasn't free."
"You said—"
"I said I wanted the Bianchis exposed. You did that beautifully. Thank you." His smile was sharp, nothing warm about it. "Now I want something in return. Delete the footage. Forget about the raid. Move on to other stories."
"And if I don't?" I tried to sound defiant. Tried to channel every principle I'd learned in journalism school about speaking truth to power.
Luca leaned in, one hand braced on the counter beside my hip, caging me in.
"Then I make some calls. Spread some rumors.
Suggest to the right people that maybe Valentino Russo isn't as ethical as everyone thinks.
Maybe he fabricates sources. Maybe he pays for quotes.
Maybe he sleeps with subjects to get information. "
The words hit like a physical blow. "That's all lies."
"Doesn't matter. Doubt is enough. Once people start questioning your integrity, your career is over." His dark eyes held mine. "I can destroy your reputation with three phone calls. Make sure you never publish anything that matters again. Or..."
"Or?" I hated how breathless I sounded.
"Or you work with me. I'll keep feeding you stories—real stories, legitimate exposés worth publishing. You'll win more awards than you dreamed of. Build a career that actually means something. All you have to do is kill the stories I tell you to kill. Starting with the raid footage."
My hands gripped the counter edge behind me hard enough to hurt. "You're blackmailing me."
"I'm offering you a deal. A partnership.
" He reached up and tucked a strand of my curly hair behind my ear, the gesture almost tender except for the threat behind it.
"You get exclusive access to the kind of sources that make Pulitzer nominations.
I get a journalist I can trust to be... selective about what he publishes. "
"That's not journalism. That's propaganda."
"Call it whatever helps you sleep at night." His hand dropped away. "You've got twenty-four hours to decide. Delete the footage and we have a deal. Publish it and I bury you."
He'd walked toward the door. Paused with his hand on the knob.
"For what it's worth, I hope you make the smart choice. I'd hate to destroy someone with your talent." He'd looked back at me, and for just a second something almost like regret crossed his face. "But I will if I have to."
Then he was gone, leaving me shaking in my own apartment, his cologne still lingering in the air.
I'd spent that entire night staring at the raid footage. Weighing my options. Telling myself I'd refuse, I'd publish anyway, I wouldn't let him control me.
But I knew what my reputation meant. Knew how quickly doubt could spread in journalism circles. One accusation of fabricating sources and I'd be done. Nobody would hire me. No editor would publish my work. Everything I'd built would crumble.
At dawn, I'd deleted the footage.
All of it. Every frame. Emptied the trash, ran a secure delete program to make sure it was truly gone.
Then I'd called the number on Luca's business card and said: "It's done."
"Good choice." He'd sounded pleased. "I'll be in touch with your next story."
That had been nearly two months ago. Since then, I'd published three more exposés—all based on information Luca provided. A corrupt city councilman. A real estate developer cooking books. A police chief taking bribes. All legitimate stories. All true. All given to me instead of earned.
And I'd attended four meetings with Luca where he'd told me what not to publish. Rumors about the Vitale organization. Speculation about their business practices. Anything that might hurt them.
I'd killed every story he told me to kill.
And the attraction I'd felt in that coffee shop had grown into something I couldn't control. Something I resented and craved in equal measure.