Chapter 3 Valentino #2
Alex leaned back and studied me with an expression I didn't like. "You've been weird lately. Since the Rodriguez story. Actually, since the Bianchi exposé. You've been different."
"Different how?"
"Cagier. More secretive. You used to share what you were working on, bounce ideas around. Now you're locked down tight." He paused. "Where are you getting your sources, Val?"
The question hit too close to home. "I can't reveal sources. You know that."
"I'm not asking for names. I'm asking if you're being careful. Because the stories you've been publishing—they're good. Really good. But they're also suspiciously well-sourced. Like someone's handing you complete packages instead of leads you're developing yourself."
I forced a laugh that sounded hollow even to my own ears. "Are you accusing me of not doing my job?"
"I'm saying it looks convenient. You publish a story destroying the Bianchi family's reputation. Then you publish one that takes down a city councilman who happens to be a Vitale rival. The pattern is there if you know how to look."
"There's no pattern. They're both legitimate stories about corruption."
"I'm not questioning the legitimacy. I'm questioning where you're getting the information." Alex leaned forward, lowering his voice. "Val, I'm your friend. If you're in over your head with something, you can tell me."
"I'm not in over my head."
"Then why do you look terrified?"
I met his eyes and saw genuine concern there. Alex wasn't interrogating me as a journalist. He was worried as a friend.
"I'm fine," I said again. "Just stressed about deadlines."
"Okay." He didn't believe me. I could see it in his face. "But if you need help, I'm here. Whatever it is."
We talked about other things after that—his stories, mutual friends from journalism school, industry gossip. But the conversation about my sources hung between us like a third presence at the table.
When Alex excused himself to use the bathroom, he left his phone on the table. The screen lit up with a notification and I glanced at it automatically.
A message from someone named David: Did you talk to Russo about the Vitale connection?
David. Agent David Reeves.
Alex was talking to the FBI about me.
My best friend from journalism school was feeding information to a federal agent investigating my sources.
I felt sick.
When Alex came back, I made excuses about needing to get home to work. He hugged me goodbye and told me to take care of myself, call if I needed anything. All the things a good friend would say.
While he was informing on me to the FBI.
I walked back to my apartment in a daze, trying to figure out who I could trust anymore. Luca had coerced me. The FBI was investigating me. My friend was reporting on me. I was alone in this mess and drowning.
By the time I got home, I'd made a decision.
I needed to know if Luca had been telling the truth about offering me a choice. Needed to know if I could trust anything he'd said. Because if I couldn't trust him, I had no allies left. I was completely on my own against federal investigators and former friends who'd turned informant.
But I couldn't just call him. Couldn't make it that easy.
So I did what I always did when I needed to understand something: I researched.
***
I spent Monday through Wednesday researching Luca Romano with the same thoroughness I brought to any investigative story.
Google searches turned up dozens of articles.
Society page mentions of Luca at charity events, always photographed in perfectly tailored suits with that practiced smile.
Business journal profiles of Inferno's success, crediting Luca's management and vision.
Real estate deals, property acquisitions, all completely legitimate on paper.
The Vitale organization’s architect was everywhere, all charm and success and calculated public persona.
But I dug deeper.
Property records showed Luca's penthouse was purchased eight years ago for cash. No mortgage, no paper trail of where the money came from. Before that, no real estate holdings in his name at all.
Corporate filings showed him listed as COO of Vitale Holdings since its incorporation. But before that? Nothing. No previous employment, no educational records, no history.
It was like Luca Romano had sprung into existence fully formed and immediately stepped into a high-level position in what everyone suspected was an organized crime front.
I found one photograph from before the this current era. Buried in an old newspaper article about a charity boxing match fundraiser from twelve years ago. The caption identified "Local competitors including Luca Romano" in a group photo of fighters.
The man in the photo barely resembled the Luca I knew.
Same face but harder, younger, hungrier.
He wore a tank top that showed arms covered in bruises and cuts.
His hair was longer, unstyled. No expensive suit, no careful smile, no calculated charm.
Just a young man who looked like he'd fought his way up from nothing and wasn't done fighting yet.
I stared at that photograph for a long time, trying to reconcile it with the polished businessman who'd fucked me against his desk while wearing a three-piece suit.
"Someone who doesn't exist anymore."
That's what he'd said when I'd asked who he'd been before his current self. Looking at this photograph, I understood what he meant. That young fighter had been buried under layers of performance and persona. Suffocated by the role Luca had created to survive in the world he'd chosen.
But he was still in there. I'd seen glimpses of him—in moments of vulnerability, in the heat of passion, in the crack in his facade when he'd admitted he wanted me.
The real Luca existed somewhere beneath the polish. And for reasons I couldn't fully explain, I wanted to find him.
Tuesday night I got an email from Agent Reeves requesting a meeting. Professional, courteous, with just enough implied pressure to make it clear refusing wasn't really an option. I responded saying I'd be available next week, buying myself time.
Wednesday afternoon I wrote a story that had nothing to do with Luca. Local corruption in the school board, something I'd been investigating on my own for months. Small-scale compared to the Bianchi and Rodriguez exposés, but it was mine. Research I'd done, sources I'd cultivated, work I'd earned.
I submitted it to a local paper and felt a flicker of pride when they accepted it immediately.
Proof. That's what it was. Proof that I was still a real journalist when I wasn't taking Luca's handouts.
Wednesday night I stood in front of my closet trying to figure out what to wear to meet a mobster who'd coerced me and fucked me and offered me freedom all in the span of two months.
I settled on dark jeans and a button-down shirt—nice enough to show I'd made an effort but not so formal it looked like I was trying too hard. Boots instead of sneakers. A light jacket because October evenings were getting cold.
Then I stood in front of the mirror and practiced looking like I had my shit together.
Failed miserably.
My phone buzzed. Text from Luca: Looking forward to tonight. The address is 847 West 28th Street, top floor. Security will let you up.
Not his office. His actual residence. His private space.
I typed: I'll be there.
Then deleted it and wrote: See you at 8.
Professional. Neutral. Like this was a business meeting and not... whatever this actually was.
I left my apartment at 7:15, giving myself plenty of time to get there and plenty of opportunity to chicken out. Took the subway to Manhattan, emerged into the cool evening air, and started walking.
The building was exactly what I'd expected: modern, expensive, the kind of place that cost more per month than I made in a year. Security in the lobby checked my ID against a list and waved me toward the private elevator.
"Top floor, Mr. Russo. Mr. Romano is expecting you."
The elevator was all mirrors and polished steel. I watched my reflection during the ascent and tried to convince myself I looked calm. Collected. Like a person who knew what they were doing.
The doors opened directly into a penthouse foyer.
And there was Luca.
He stood waiting for me, and for a moment I forgot how to breathe.
No suit tonight. Just dark jeans and a charcoal sweater that somehow looked just as expensive as his usual tailored perfection. His hair was less styled than usual, falling slightly across his forehead. He looked more like that young fighter in the photograph and less like the persona.
He looked real.
"Valentino." His voice was warm. Genuine. "Come in."
I stepped off the elevator and the doors closed behind me with a quiet whoosh that felt final.
No going back now.
I was here. I'd made my choice.
I just hoped I wouldn't regret it.