Chapter 1 Valentino #3
The meetings had been getting more intense.
More personal. Luca asked questions that had nothing to do with journalism—about my background, my family, what I wanted from life.
He shared carefully curated pieces of himself in return, though I was certain they weren't the real him.
Just enough to create the illusion of intimacy.
Three nights ago, after our latest meeting, something had almost happened. I'd challenged him about a story he wanted killed—some politician with Vitale connections. "This is news. People have a right to know."
"People have a right to what I decide they have a right to." Luca had stood from behind his desk at Inferno, moved around it toward me. "You seem to keep forgetting how this arrangement works."
"I forget nothing. You've made me your puppet."
"Have I?" He'd been close enough to touch. "Because from where I'm standing, you're getting everything you wanted. Awards. Recognition. A reputation as New York's best investigative journalist under thirty. If you're my puppet, you're a very successful one."
"I'm a fraud."
"You're pragmatic. There's a difference." He'd stepped closer, invading my space in a way that made my pulse race. "You made a choice, Valentino. You chose your career over your principles. That's not fraud. That's survival."
I should have stepped back. Should have left. Should have done anything except stand there staring at his mouth and thinking about all the things I shouldn't be thinking about.
"I hate you," I'd said, but my voice had come out wrong. Too breathless. Too wanting.
"Do you?" His dark eyes had searched mine, seeing too much. "Or do you hate that you want me?"
I'd opened my mouth to deny it. To tell him he was wrong, that I felt nothing but contempt for him and his manipulations.
But Luca had smiled—that dangerous, knowing smile—and said: "One day soon you're going to stop lying to yourself about what you want. And when you do, I'll be waiting."
Then he'd stepped back. Given me space I didn't want. Dismissed me like nothing had happened.
I'd left his office with my hands shaking and my thoughts in chaos, humiliated by how close I'd come to closing that distance between us myself.
Everything had shifted after that night. Our meeting tonight carried a different charge. Luca looked at me like he was waiting for something. Like he knew it was inevitable and was just giving me time to admit it to myself.
And he was right. I knew I'd give in eventually. Was already planning to give in. Because whatever integrity I'd had left died the night I deleted that raid footage, and at least if I was going to sell my soul, I could get something I wanted in return.
Even if what I wanted was my own destruction.
My phone buzzed again from across the room. Another text.
Unknown Number: Stop overthinking. Go to sleep.
I wanted to ignore it. Wanted to throw the phone harder this time, maybe smash it against the wall for good measure.
Instead I typed: How do you know I'm overthinking?
Because I know you. You're sitting on your bed, staring at the files I gave you, cataloging all the ways you've compromised yourself. Wondering if you're really a journalist anymore or just my well-dressed informant.
The accuracy was unnerving. Fuck you.
Eventually. But right now, sleep. The Rodriguez story can wait until you're not dead on your feet.
I turned the phone off completely this time. Shoved it under a pillow where I couldn't see it light up again.
But I couldn't shut off my brain as easily. Couldn't stop replaying every interaction with Luca, every choice I'd made, every moment I'd let him pull me deeper into his world.
Three months ago I'd been a promising investigative journalist with principles and ambition. Now I was something else entirely. Luca Romano's kept journalist. His source of controlled information flow. His—
I couldn't finish the thought.
Outside, Brooklyn was starting to wake up.
Delivery trucks rattling past. Early morning runners heading to the park.
Normal people living normal lives that didn't involve mob-adjacent nightclub owners who threatened your career and looked at you like they were planning exactly how they'd take you apart.
I lay back on my unmade bed, still fully dressed, and stared at the water-stained ceiling.
Tomorrow I'd write the Rodriguez exposé. I'd craft it into something brilliant and thorough that would win me another award I didn't deserve. I'd take Luca's information and I'd tell myself it was still journalism because the facts were true even if the sourcing was compromised.
I'd lie to myself the same way I'd been lying for nearly two months.
And the next time Luca summoned me—because he would summon me, probably within days—I'd go.
And eventually, probably soon, the tension between us would snap.
I'd let him touch me the way I'd been imagining for months.
I'd let him have me. I'd let him own another piece of my soul because I was already too far gone to stop.
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.