Chapter 2 Luca #2
"How?" Julian's hazel eyes were steady. "You threatened him. Forced him into compliance. You're using power and control to keep him in line. That's exactly what my family did to me. What Dante tried to do."
The comparison stung because it was uncomfortably accurate.
"Except Valentino isn't a victim," I said. "He made a choice. He deleted the raid footage because preserving his career mattered more than his principles. That's on him, not me."
"You didn't give him a real choice." Emilio's voice was gentle but pointed. "You backed him into a corner and made him choose between two terrible options. That's coercion, not choice."
I looked at Sandro, expecting him to defend me. To point out that business sometimes required difficult decisions. That managing threats was part of what we did.
Instead he said: "If you're going to keep him, keep him properly. Don't half-ass it."
"I'm not keeping him. I'm using him."
"Luca." Sandro's expression was knowing. Patient. Infuriating. "I spent months telling myself that Emilio was just a useful attorney. That my interest was purely strategic. I was lying to myself and everyone knew it."
"I'm not lying—"
"You read his articles three times," Stefan said. "I saw the browser history on the office computer. You've got Google alerts set for his name. You mentioned him twice in yesterday's partners meeting when he had nothing to do with what we were discussing."
Had I done that? I tried to remember and couldn't.
"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.
This was my world. The one I'd built from nothing through careful charm and strategic manipulation. The kingdom where everything was designed and nothing was real.
A knock on the door.
"Come in."
Valentino entered and the carefully constructed calm I'd maintained all evening evaporated.
He looked exhausted. Beautiful and exhausted and furious. Dark circles under those hazel eyes. Curly hair that needed cutting. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt that had seen better days—the kind of outfit that said he'd been working and hadn't bothered to change for this meeting.
The fuck-you energy was palpable.
"Close the door," I said.
He did, then stood there with his hands shoved in his pockets. Defensive. Defiant. Everything about his posture screamed that he didn't want to be here.
"The Rodriguez article was excellent," I said. "Thorough. Well-sourced. Exactly what I needed."
"Good." His voice was clipped. "What's next? What story do you want me to write? What truth do you want me to bury?"
The resentment in his tone should have annoyed me. Instead it did something else entirely. Something that felt like arousal mixed with frustration.
"You hate this," I observed.
"Of course I hate this. You've turned me into your personal propaganda machine." He moved further into the room, that nervous energy evident in every gesture. "I used to be a journalist. Now I'm just your well-dressed informant."
"You're still a journalist. You write excellent articles. You win awards."
"For stories you hand me. For work I didn't earn." His hands came out of his pockets, gesturing sharply. "Do you know what that feels like? Having everything I've built be based on information you chose to give me? Being a fraud wearing a journalist's credentials?"
"You're not a fraud. The work is real. The research is yours. The writing is yours. I just provided the initial leads."
"You provided everything that matters. The sources.
The documents. The access." He was closer now, close enough that I could see the freckles scattered across his nose.
Close enough to smell coffee and printer ink and something underneath that was purely him.
"I hate this. I hate you. But most of all I hate that you're right—I'm good at it. "
"You are good at it." I moved closer myself, drawn by the heat of his anger. "That's why I chose you. You've got the skills to take raw information and turn it into something that changes minds. That matters."
"It would matter more if I'd found the information myself." His voice was quieter now but no less intense. "If I'd done the actual investigative work instead of just polishing what you gave me."
"You think what you're doing isn't work?" I was close enough to touch him now. Close enough to see his pulse jumping in his throat. "Verification is work. Source protection is work. Crafting narrative is work. You're doing all of that."
"Under threat. Under coercion. That makes it something other than journalism."
"What makes it journalism?" I asked. "The method or the result? You're exposing corruption. Holding powerful people accountable. That's what you said you wanted in that coffee shop three months ago. That's what you're doing."
"Not the powerful people I should be exposing." His eyes met mine. Clear. Challenging. "The powerful people I should be exposing are standing in front of me."
The truth of it hung between us. I could see it in his face—he knew exactly what we were. What I was. And he hated that he couldn't expose it. Hated that he'd chosen his career over his principles. Hated me for forcing that choice.
"So expose me," I said quietly. "Write the article. Tell the world about the raid footage. About how I threatened you. About everything you know."
"You know I can't—"
"Why not?" I stepped closer. "Afraid I'll follow through on my threats? Destroy your reputation like I said I would?"
"Yes." The admission was quiet. Honest. "Yes, I'm afraid of that. You could ruin me with a few phone calls. Make it so I never work again. And I hate that you have that power but I hate more that it works."
"It works because your reputation matters to you. Your integrity matters." I reached out slowly, giving him time to pull away. When he didn't, I caught his chin and tilted his face up. "That's not weakness, Valentino. That's having something you value enough to protect."