Chapter 3 Valentino
I WOKE UP in my own bed and for a disorienting moment couldn't remember how I'd gotten there.
Sunlight streamed through the cheap blinds, creating stripes across the sheets. My apartment looked exactly how I'd left it—cluttered with research, coffee cups scattered across surfaces, my laptop still open on the kitchen table. Normal. Familiar. Safe.
Except nothing felt safe anymore.
I sat up and immediately regretted it. My body ached in ways that were simultaneously pleasant and mortifying. Muscles I'd forgotten existed protested the movement. I swung my legs over the side of the bed and caught sight of myself in the mirror across the room.
Fuck.
I stood and moved closer, examining the damage in the morning light.
Bruises bloomed across my hips in the distinct pattern of fingerprints. Dark purple-blue marks where Luca had gripped me while he fucked me against his office wall. Against his desk. While I'd begged for it like I'd lost my mind.
But it was my throat that made me stop breathing.
Bite marks. Multiple bite marks scattered across my neck and shoulders like a constellation of possession. Some were faint, barely visible. Others were dark and obvious, impossible to hide. Evidence that Luca Romano had put his mouth on me and marked me as his.
I traced one with my fingertips, remembering the exact moment he'd made it. The sharp pain that had transformed into pleasure. The way I'd arched into it instead of pulling away. The sound I'd made—half gasp, half moan—that had made him bite down harder.
My reflection stared back at me with accusations in its eyes.
You let him do this. You wanted him to do this.
I turned away from the mirror and grabbed my phone from the nightstand. 3:47 PM. I'd slept most of the day away, exhausted from last night and the emotional overload that had come with it.
No messages. No calls. Nothing from Luca.
I sat back on the bed and tried to piece together what had actually happened after the sex.
After my body had stopped trembling and my breathing had returned to something approaching normal.
After we'd both put our clothes back on and stood in his wrecked office trying to figure out what the fuck we'd just done.
Luca had said things. Important things that my lust-addled brain had struggled to process at the time.
"I don't want you just for the stories, Valentino. I want you. This. Us. Whatever the fuck this is."
"You can leave. Right now. I'll release you from our arrangement. Or you can stay. Come back next week. Let this become something other than coercion."
He'd offered me freedom. An actual choice. After nearly two months of controlling me, threatening me, making me dance to his tune—he'd offered to let me walk away.
I pulled my knees to my chest and tried to figure out if I believed it.
Was it real? Or was it another manipulation? Another way to make me feel like I had power when really he was just playing a longer game?
"I'm done lying. I've spent my entire adult life being this. Performing for everyone. But you—you see through it. You've always seen through it. And that terrifies me and attracts me in equal measure."
The honesty in his voice when he'd said that. The vulnerability. The way his carefully constructed facade had cracked and I'd seen the real person underneath for just a moment.
That had felt real.
But Luca was good at making things feel real. That was his gift. He could make anyone believe anything.
My phone buzzed. I grabbed it immediately, heart racing.
Just a spam email. Not Luca.
I threw the phone across the bed in frustration.
What did I expect? That he'd text me the morning after to check if I was okay? We weren't dating. We weren't anything. We were... what? I didn't even know anymore.
Two months ago I would have said he was my blackmailer. My coercer. The criminal who'd forced me into compliance by threatening everything I'd worked for.
Yesterday I would have said he was my complicated arrangement. The source I hated and wanted in equal measure.
Last night he'd become something else entirely. Something I didn't have words for yet.
I got up and headed for the shower, desperate to wash away the confusion even though I knew water wouldn't help.
Under the spray, I carefully avoided touching the marks.
Didn't want to wish them away yet even though I should.
Even though I'd need to figure out how to hide them before I went anywhere public.
Evidence. That's what they were. Physical proof that whatever Luca and I were doing had crossed a line from professional manipulation into something far more dangerous.
After the shower, I pulled on sweatpants and an old t-shirt—the softest clothes I owned because my skin felt hypersensitive. Made coffee even though it was almost four in the afternoon. Stood at my kitchen window looking out at Brooklyn and trying to figure out what the fuck I was going to do.
Come back next week.
He'd said that. Given me a timeline. A choice.
If I didn't go back, what happened? Would he actually let me walk away? Or would the threats return? Would he destroy my reputation like he'd originally promised if I didn't fall in line?
"If that's what you want, yes."
I wanted to believe him. Wanted to believe that offer of freedom had been genuine.
But belief required trust, and I didn't trust Luca Romano.
Couldn't trust him. He'd proven exactly what he was capable of when he'd shown up at my apartment and backed me against my own kitchen counter with threats and expensive cologne and those dark eyes that saw too much.
But he'd also let me go last night. Could have kept me there, in his office, in his control. Could have demanded I stay. Instead he'd stepped back and given me space to leave.
That had to mean something.
My phone rang and I nearly dropped my coffee mug.
Unknown number. I answered anyway, half hoping it was Luca from a different line. "Hello?"
"Valentino Russo?" Male voice. Professional. Unfamiliar.
"Speaking."
"This is Agent David Reeves, FBI. I was hoping you'd have a few minutes to meet with me. I have some questions about your recent work."
My blood went cold. FBI. Asking about my work.
"What kind of questions?" I kept my voice level even though my pulse was racing.
"Nothing to worry about. Just routine follow-up on some stories you've published. The Rodriguez exposé in particular caught our attention. Excellent work, by the way."
The Rodriguez story. The one Luca had handed me. The one that had been too good, too thoroughly sourced, too perfect.
"I'm happy to answer questions," I said carefully. "But I'd prefer to do it through official channels. Email me at my professional address and we can set something up."
"Of course. I'll be in touch." A pause. "One more thing—do you have any professional relationship with the Vitale organization? Inferno nightclub specifically?"
The question hit like a physical blow. He knew. Somehow he knew.
"I'm a journalist. I have many sources across various organizations. I don't discuss my sources."
"Naturally. I respect that. But when sources might be subjects of ongoing federal investigations, it becomes relevant. We'll talk more when we meet."
He hung up before I could respond.
I stood frozen in my kitchen, phone still pressed to my ear, trying to process what had just happened.
The FBI was investigating my connection to Luca. To Inferno. They were asking questions about the stories I'd written—stories that had been handed to me by someone they were actively investigating.
This was exactly what I'd been afraid of. Exactly what Luca had warned would happen if the raid footage got published. Except now the FBI was interested anyway, even without the footage.
Because I'd been too good. Too successful. Too suddenly connected to stories that exposed Vitale rivals and competition.
I'd made myself visible. And now I was being watched.
I needed to tell Luca about this. He needed to know the FBI was making connections between us.
Then I stopped myself.
Did I owe him that information? He'd released me from our arrangement. Told me I could walk away. If I was really free, I didn't owe him anything.
But if I was free, why did I want to call him so badly?
I set the phone down and made myself think rationally instead of emotionally.
FBI Agent David Reeves was investigating me.
Asking about my sources. Making connections to the Vitale organization.
That was a problem whether I was involved with Luca or not.
My journalistic career depended on source protection and ethical reporting.
If the FBI started publicly suggesting I was compromised, my reputation would be destroyed just as effectively as if Luca had spread those rumors himself.
I was caught between two threats now: Luca's potential retaliation if I walked away, and the FBI's investigation if I stayed.
Perfect. Just perfect.
***
Sunday afternoon I met Alex Park for coffee at our usual place in Park Slope.
Alex had been a friend since journalism school, currently working for the Times covering city politics.
He'd been the one who'd congratulated me on the Rodriguez exposé, who'd noticed my sudden string of successful stories.
"You look like hell," he said by way of greeting, sliding into the booth across from me.
"Thanks. You're a real confidence boost."
"Seriously though, are you sleeping?" He studied my face with the same analytical attention he brought to his reporting. "You've got dark circles that makeup isn't hiding."
I'd worn a turtleneck despite the warm October weather.
"I'm fine. Just been working a lot."
"On what? You haven't pitched anything new to the usual outlets. I checked."
Of course he'd checked. Alex was thorough about everything.
"Just some research. Following leads." I took a sip of my coffee to avoid his eyes.
"Leads on what?"
"Can't discuss it yet. You know how it is."