Chapter 13 Julian
Again.
This was the fourth night in a row I'd woken to find Elio gone. Working. Obsessing. Running himself into the ground trying to secure every possible vulnerability.
I pulled on sweatpants and went looking for him.
Found him in his home office—the small room off the living area he rarely used.
He was hunched over his laptop, multiple monitors displaying security feeds from Inferno.
His face was lit by the blue glow of screens.
Dark circles shadowed his eyes. His jaw was covered in several days' worth of stubble. He looked exhausted.
"Elio."
He didn't look up. "Go back to bed."
"Come with me."
"Can't. I'm reviewing new security protocols. The raid exposed weaknesses in our systems. I need to fix them before—"
"Before what? Before another raid that might not even happen?" I moved closer. "You've been working for twenty straight hours. You need sleep."
"I'll sleep when we're secure."
"We are secure. You've upgraded everything. Added new cameras. Changed access codes. Implemented new procedures. There's nothing left to fix."
"There's always something." His eyes stayed glued to the screens. "FBI’s is still out there. Still building a case. Winston's still feeding him information—"
"Winston's in federal custody and powerless. The three moles—"
"Matteo and I handled them three days ago.
Roughed them up, told them to leave the city and never come back.
They're gone but that doesn't mean there aren't others.
" Elio's voice was harsh. Strained. "I can't afford to miss anything.
One mistake. One vulnerability. That's all it takes for everything to fall apart. "
I put my hand on his shoulder. He was trembling. From exhaustion or adrenaline or both.
"Please. Come to bed. Just for a few hours."
"I said I can't." He shrugged off my hand. "Go back to sleep, Julian. I'll be fine."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to physically drag him away from the desk. But I'd tried that yesterday. And the day before. It only made him defensive.
So I went back to bed alone. Lay there staring at the ceiling. Listening to the sound of Elio typing in the other room.
Wondering how to help someone who wouldn't let themselves be helped.
***
By day five after the raid, Elio was running on maybe four hours of sleep total. He'd lost weight. Snapped at people. Checked and rechecked security measures obsessively.
I brought him breakfast. He ignored it.
I suggested we go out for dinner. He said he was too busy.
I tried to get him to talk about what he was feeling. He shut down completely.
"I'm fine," he said. Every time. Like a mantra. "I'm handling it."
He wasn't handling it. He was spiraling. And I was helpless to stop it.
That afternoon, I was at Inferno working with Stefan on financial reports when I finally broke.
"I don't know what to do," I admitted. "He won't rest. Won't eat properly. Won't talk about what's bothering him beyond general security concerns. He's destroying himself and I can't get through to him."
Stefan looked up from the spreadsheet we'd been reviewing. "Elio deals with stress by trying to control everything around him. After the raid, his control was challenged. Now he's overcompensating."
"I get that. But he's going to make himself sick. And he won't let me help."
"Because accepting help means admitting he can't handle everything alone. That's hard for him."
"So what am I supposed to do? Just watch him work himself to death?"
Stefan was quiet for a moment. Then: "Maybe help in a way he doesn't have to acknowledge. Find a problem you can solve without him knowing. Give him one less thing to worry about."
I thought about that. What could I do that would actually help? I wasn't security trained. Wasn't muscle. Couldn't protect Inferno the way Elio and Matteo did.
But I did have other skills.
"The FBI investigation," I said slowly. "The public pressure. The narrative around the raid. That's something I could influence."
"How?"
"Journalism. I still have contacts from my pseudonymous writing. If I planted stories with the right outlets, framed the narrative correctly—I could turn public opinion against the FBI. Make their investigation politically untenable."
Stefan's expression shifted. Concerned. "Julian, that's risky. If anyone connects those stories back to you—"
"They won't. I know how to work anonymously. I've been doing it for years." The idea was taking shape in my mind. Solidifying. "This is what I'm good at. Research. Writing. Influencing narratives. Let me use those skills."
"Would Elio want you to do this?"
"No. And I'm not telling him. He'd say it's too dangerous. That I should stay hidden. That he'll handle everything." I met Stefan's eyes. "But I'm tired of sitting on the sidelines while he fights every battle alone. I need to contribute. This is how I can do it."
Stefan looked like he wanted to argue. Instead he just sighed. "Be careful. And if it starts going wrong, tell someone. Don't try to handle it alone."
"I will. I promise."
I left Inferno went back to Elio's apartment. To my laptop. To the encrypted email account I'd used for years to submit articles to small publications.
Time to remind people why investigating the FBI was more important than investigating Inferno.
My first article appeared three days later in a small but respected online publication known for investigative journalism.
"FBI's Pattern of Overreach: When Fishing Expeditions Violate Civil Liberties"
I'd written it carefully. Analytically. Focused on legal precedent and constitutional concerns rather than specific cases. But I'd included the Inferno raid as an example. Referenced the overly broad warrant. The aggressive tactics. The lack of evidence found.
The article got traction. Shares on social media. Pick-up by larger outlets. Comments from legal scholars agreeing with my analysis.
I tracked the coverage from Elio's apartment while he worked at Inferno. Felt proud. Useful. Like I was finally contributing instead of just being protected.
Two days later, I published a second piece through a different contact. This one focused on Rebecca Watson specifically.
"Corruption Case Against Former FBI Agent Raises Questions About Oversight"
I detailed Watson's relationship with Winston. The emails proving coordination. The investigation that followed. Then posed questions: If one agent could become this corrupt, how many others might be compromised? What systemic failures allowed this to happen?
This article got even more attention. Made it into the Washington Post's opinion section. Started trending on Twitter.
Politicians began asking questions. A congressman from New York called for hearings into FBI oversight. A senator demanded an investigation into the Inferno raid specifically.
Public opinion was shifting exactly as I'd hoped. People were questioning why the FBI was so focused on Inferno when their own corruption needed addressing.
I published a third article. Then a fourth. Each carefully researched. Each anonymously submitted. Each building the narrative that the FBI's investigation into Inferno was politically motivated overreach.
The pressure on the FBI increased. Investigation head David Reeves was named in several articles as leading a questionable investigation. His superiors were forced to defend him publicly. To justify the raid's aggressive tactics.
It was working. I was helping. Making a real difference.
And Elio had no idea.
***
The article that exposed me appeared on day twelve after the raid.
I was at Elio's apartment, reviewing coverage of my most recent piece, when I saw it trending on Twitter.
"Whistleblower Revealed: Winston Bianchi's Son Behind Anti-FBI Campaign"
My blood went cold.
I clicked through. Read with growing horror.
The journalist—someone I'd never worked with directly—had connected dots I'd thought were unconnected. Similar writing style across multiple publications. Shared sources. Timing that matched Winston Bianchi's downfall. Contact information that eventually traced back to my pseudonymous email.
They'd published my real name. My photo. My entire history.
Julian Bianchi, 21, son of disgraced Chicago crime boss Winston Bianchi, has been identified as the source behind a series of articles critical of FBI investigations.
Bianchi, who fled his family earlier this year and is rumored to be under protection of the Vitale organization in New York, has been systematically planting stories designed to undermine federal law enforcement's credibility.
The younger Bianchi's motivations are clear: his father Winston was exposed as an FBI informant through leaked documents earlier this year.
Julian Bianchi himself is believed to have provided those documents to journalists.
Now, as the FBI investigates the Vitale organization, Bianchi has launched what appears to be a coordinated media campaign to discredit federal authorities.
Questions arise about whether this represents genuine whistleblowing or calculated retaliation. Legal experts suggest...
I stopped reading.
My name. My face. My connection to the Vitales. All public now. All connected to the articles I'd written.
Panic flooded through me.
My phone started buzzing. News alerts. Messages from journalism contacts asking if it was true. Requests for comment from reporters.
I turned off my phone with shaking hands.
This was bad. Really bad. I'd exposed myself. Made myself a target. Confirmed publicly that I was working with the Vitales.
Winston would see this. Dante would see this. Everyone would see this.
I pulled up Twitter again. Watched the story spread. Watched my name trend. Watched people debate whether I was a hero or a traitor.
Watched my entire life become public consumption.
My laptop pinged with an email notification.
I almost ignored it. Then saw the sender name: Inferno Security Desk