Chapter 7 Valentino #2
Tuesday, Emilio called me. He was exactly what I'd expected—sharp, professional, completely competent. He spent two hours on the phone walking me through what Reeves would likely ask and how to answer.
"Don't volunteer information. Answer the specific question asked and nothing more. If he asks about your relationship with Luca, acknowledge you know him professionally. Don't elaborate."
"And if he asks directly if we're sleeping together?"
"Tell him your personal life is not relevant to his investigation. If he pushes, tell him you want counsel present before answering personal questions."
"Will that make me look guilty?"
"It will make you look smart. Never answer personal questions to federal agents without a lawyer present." His voice was firm. "Valentino, I'm serious. Reeves is fishing. Don't give him anything to use."
Wednesday I met with sources for my school board investigation. The story was good—really good—and completely independent of Luca. Proof that I could still do real journalism. That I wasn't just his puppet journalist.
One source, an elementary school teacher who'd witnessed budget irregularities, asked if I was okay.
"You seem stressed," she said.
"Just a lot going on. But I'm fine."
"The Rodriguez story was incredible. You're really making a name for yourself."
The compliment should have felt good. Instead it just reminded me that my "name" was partially built on information Luca had provided. But this story—this investigation into school board corruption—was all mine. My sources, my research, my work.
That mattered.
Wednesday night I stayed at the penthouse with Luca. We ordered takeout and pretended tomorrow wasn't looming over us. Watched a movie neither of us paid attention to. Went to bed early even though neither of us could sleep.
"I keep thinking about all the ways this could go wrong," Luca admitted in the darkness.
"So do I. But worrying doesn't help."
"I know. Doesn't stop me." His arms tightened around me. "Promise me you'll be careful. Promise me you won't put yourself at risk."
"I promise. I'm just answering questions. I'll be fine."
"You don't know that."
"Neither do you. But I need you to trust that I can handle this."
He was quiet for a long time. Then: "I do trust you. It's Reeves I don't trust."
Fair distinction. I didn't trust Reeves either. But I could handle one interview. I had to.
Thursday morning arrived with nauseating inevitability.
I woke up at six even though the meeting wasn't until two. Couldn't sleep anymore, mind already spinning through possible questions and answers. Luca was already awake, standing at the window looking out at the city.
"Morning," I said.
He turned. "Morning. How are you feeling?"
"Terrified."
"Honest." He came back to bed and pulled me close. "You don't have to do this. We can cancel. Find another way."
"There is no other way. He's going to keep pushing until I meet with him. Better to do it on my terms."
"I hate this."
"I know." I kissed him. "But I'll be okay. Emilio prepped me. I know what to say and what not to say."
We made breakfast together but I couldn't eat much. My stomach was twisted in knots of anxiety. Luca didn't push, just made sure I had coffee and something in my stomach.
"Security will follow you," he said. "They won't interfere or make themselves known. Just... insurance."
"I know. You told me." I reached for his hand. "Thank you. For trusting me to do this."
"I'm trying. Every instinct I have says to stop you, lock you in here, handle Reeves myself. But that's not what you need."
"No. I need to do this myself." I stood. "I should get ready."
I dressed carefully—button-down shirt, nice jeans, boots. Professional but not overly formal. Journalist meeting with a federal agent, not a suspect turning himself in. The distinction mattered, at least to me.
By one o'clock I was ready. Had my ID, my phone, my carefully rehearsed answers. Luca called me a car—insisted on it, and I didn't argue—and walked me down to the lobby.
"Text me when you're done," he said. "The second you're done. I'll be waiting."
"I will."
"And if anything goes wrong—"
"It won't."
"But if it does—"
I kissed him to stop the spiral. "I'll be fine. I promise."
The car pulled up and I got in. Watched Luca through the window as we pulled away, seeing the fear written across his face even as he tried to hide it.
The drive to 26 Federal Plaza took twenty minutes. I spent them breathing deeply and going over Emilio's instructions in my head. Stay calm. Answer only what's asked. Don't volunteer information. Keep it professional.
The FBI building was exactly as intimidating as expected. All concrete and glass and federal authority. I checked in at security, showed my ID, and was directed to the elevators.
Agent Reeves's office was on the seventh floor. A receptionist directed me to a conference room where Reeves was waiting.
He stood when I entered. Early thirties, dark hair, professional suit, the kind of ambitious energy that suggested he was trying to make his career on this case.
"Mr. Russo. Thank you for coming in." He gestured to a chair. "Please, have a seat."
I sat, trying to project confidence I didn't feel. "Happy to help however I can."
"I appreciate your cooperation. This is just an informal conversation. You're not under investigation or being charged with anything."
Yet. The word hung unspoken between us.
"I wanted to ask you about your recent work," Reeves continued. "You've published several high-profile exposés in the past few months. The Bianchi story. The Rodriguez piece. Very thorough investigations."
"Thank you."
"Can you tell me about your sources for these stories?"
"I don't reveal sources. That's standard journalistic practice."
"Of course. I'm not asking for names. I'm asking about methodology. How you obtained the information."
Careful. This was the trap Emilio had warned me about. "Through standard investigative techniques. Document review, interviews, public records requests."
"And these sources came to you? Or did you cultivate them?"
"Bit of both. Some reached out. Some I developed relationships with over time."
"Including sources within the Vitale organization?"
There it was. The connection he was building. "I have sources across various organizations. That's how journalism works."
"Specifically, do you have a professional relationship with Luca Romano?"
My heart rate spiked but I kept my face neutral. "I know Mr. Romano professionally, yes."
"In what capacity?"
"He's a source. Someone I've spoken with for background on various stories."
"Just professional?"
"My personal life isn't relevant to my journalism."
Reeves smiled. It wasn't friendly. "Mr. Russo, I have photographs of you entering Mr. Romano's residence. Multiple times. At odd hours. That suggests more than a professional relationship."
Fuck. He'd been surveilling me. Us. For weeks probably.
"What I do in my personal time—"
"Is relevant when you're potentially compromised as a journalist. When you're sleeping with a subject of a federal investigation."
"I'm not—" I stopped. Collected myself. "Agent Reeves, unless you're charging me with something, I think this conversation is over."
"I'm not charging you with anything. Yet. I'm trying to understand if you're a victim or a participant."
"Victim of what?"
"Coercion. Intimidation. Mr. Romano has a history of using leverage to get what he wants. If he's pressured you, threatened you, forced you into compliance—we can help."
The offer was almost laughable. Reeves wanted to paint me as a victim to build his case against Luca. Wanted me to flip, testify, become their star witness.
"No one has coerced me," I said firmly. "My journalism is legitimate. My sources are protected. And my personal life is none of your business."
"So you're saying your relationship with Romano is entirely voluntary?"
"I'm saying this interview is over." I stood. "If you have actual evidence of wrongdoing, present it. Otherwise, stop wasting both our time."
Reeves stood too. "Mr. Russo, you're making a mistake. Romano is dangerous. When we bring charges—and we will—anyone associated with him will be implicated. I'm offering you a way out."
"I don't need a way out. I haven't done anything wrong."
"You've accepted information from a criminal organization. You've failed to report knowledge of illegal activity. That's conspiracy, at minimum."
The threat was clear. Cooperate or face charges myself.
"Then charge me," I said. "But I'm done talking without counsel present."
I walked out before he could respond. Took the elevator down with shaking hands. Made it outside into the October afternoon and finally let myself breathe.
My phone buzzed immediately. Text from Luca: Are you okay? Security says you left. What happened?
I typed back: I'm fine. On my way to you now. We need to talk.
The car that had brought me was still waiting. I got in and gave the driver Inferno's address. Spent the drive trying to process what had just happened.
Reeves wasn't fishing anymore. He had evidence. Photos. A case he was building. And he'd made it clear—I was either with him or against him. Either I flipped on Luca or I went down too.
The thought should have terrified me. Should have sent me running.
Instead, I just felt resolve harden in my chest.
I wasn't flipping. Wasn't testifying against Luca. Wasn't becoming Reeves's star witness in whatever case he was building.
I'd made my choice. For better or worse, I was choosing Luca.
Luca was waiting in his office when I arrived at Inferno. He stood the second I walked in, crossing the room in three strides and pulling me into his arms.
"Are you okay?" His voice was tight with barely controlled fear. "Security said you left after forty minutes. What happened?"
"He has photos. Of me at your penthouse. Multiple times." I pulled back to look at him. "He's been surveilling us, Luca. Building a case. He knows about our relationship."