Chapter 2
Power has a sound.
For the mayor, it's the murmur of donors behind closed doors. For the Morettis, it's silence—the kind that makes men look over their shoulders.
For me, it's the click of my keyboard at two in the morning, each word a match struck in the dark.
The newsroom is almost empty. The hum of fluorescent lights and the distant clack of someone finishing with the copy machine are the only proof that the world's still turning. The city outside glows like a cigarette—bright at the edges, toxic at the center.
I lean over my desk, half-drunk on caffeine and adrenaline, eyes burning as I trace the web on my screen again.
Money. It always tells the story people try hardest to bury.
One shell company after another, each a ghost that leads to another ghost—construction, consulting, "community initiatives"—until the trail lands on one name that doesn't belong in city politics.
Moretti Holdings.
Every journalist in New York knows the name, and none of them touch it. Because the Morettis aren't just powerful—they are the shadow everyone pretends not to see.
I pinch the bridge of my nose, staring at the spreadsheet until the lines blur. The mayor's office has been laundering money for years, funneling public contracts into private hands, but this—this is the first time the trail crosses into organized crime.
And I've got the receipts.
The only problem is, having proof and publishing it are two very different things.
The elevator dings down the hall, pulling me out of my thoughts. Footsteps—steady, confident, familiar. I don't even look up when my brother walks in.
"Danny, it's midnight."
"So it is." He drops a bag from the 24-hour deli on my desk and sits across from me, legs stretched, unbothered by the stack of papers he's knocking over. "Dinner for the workaholic."
"Thanks." I open the bag to find fries. "You realize you brought me carbs, right?"
"You're welcome."
He looks too polished for this hour—tie loosened but still in place, watch glinting in the lamplight—the perfect DeLaurentis heir, groomed for politics since birth. Where I chase headlines, he makes them.
He studies me, eyes narrowing. "You're doing it again."
"Doing what?"
"That thing where you pretend you're fine so no one realizes you've stopped eating and sleeping."
I arch a brow. "That's rich coming from Mr. Senator's-Office-by-Thirty."
He smirks, but it fades fast. "I got a call today."
"Let me guess. Dad?"
"No." His tone sharpens. "The mayor's office."
I freeze.
He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low. "You're asking dangerous questions, Isa."
"I always ask dangerous questions."
"This is different. You're not poking a politician anymore—you're poking them."
I pretend to shrug, but the weight of his words lands heavily. "I'm just following the money."
He runs a hand through his hair, pacing now. "Do you hear yourself? The Morettis don't play in the same sandbox as the rest of us. You think because you write with integrity, the world will protect you? It won't."
"I don't need protection."
"Yes, you do," he snaps. "You just don't know it yet."
The silence that follows isn't comfortable—it's full of everything we don't say.
About the night I was grabbed outside a courthouse for exposing a police bribery ring.
About how he paid off the right people to make the story disappear from the news.
About how I kept writing anyway.
Finally, I sigh. "Danny, if I don't tell the truth, who will?"
"Someone who isn't my sister."
I can't help the small smile that tugs at my mouth. "I didn't ask to be your problem."
He looks at me for a long moment, something soft flickering behind the exhaustion. "You're not my problem," he says quietly. "You're my heartache."
That cracks something inside me. He stands before I can reply.
"Just… be careful," he says. "And lock your damn doors."
He leaves, his cologne lingering long after the door shuts.
The room feels colder once he's gone. I pull my cardigan tighter, scrolling through bank logs again. The line between bravery and recklessness has always been thin for me—probably genetic.
Another transaction jumps out—Valenti Construction, a shell company that shouldn't exist anymore. Its registered address burned down three years ago.
Yet someone moved $200,000 through it last month.
I cross-reference the routing number.
The money ends up in a holding company registered to Moretti Global.
My pulse kicks.
I grab my notebook and start jotting—connections, dates, the timeline forming in my head. This is the story I've been chasing since grad school—the kind that matters. The kind that could end careers. Or lives.
The screen blurs for a moment, and I realize my eyes are burning. I rub them and stand to stretch. The glass wall of my office reflects the newsroom behind me—dark except for my own light. For a second, I swear there's movement in the reflection, just past my door.
When I turn, the hall's empty.
Maybe Danny's right. Maybe I'm tired.
Still, when I sit back down, I pull the shades.
By the time I close my laptop, the clock reads 2:47 a.m. I gather my things, sliding the USB drive into my pocket. The street below is nearly empty, save for a lone cab crawling past.
As I lock up, my phone buzzes.
Unknown number.
A single photo.
It's me. Sitting right here, ten minutes ago. The angle is from across the street.
The blood drains from my face.
I whirl toward the windows. Nothing. Just the reflection of my own panic.
My pulse drums in my ears as I pack faster, checking the hallway, then the stairwell. Each step down echoes loudly.
The night guard at the front desk glances up. "Are you heading out late again, Miss DeLaurentis?"
"Yeah." My voice sounds steadier than I feel. "Story won't write itself."
He smiles faintly. "You're gonna give your brother gray hair."
"Already has them," I mutter.
Outside, the city feels wrong—too still, like it's holding its breath. A cold drizzle slicks the pavement, muting my footsteps. I keep my phone in one hand, my keys clenched between my fingers in the other.
At the corner, I stop.
A black sedan idles half a block behind me.
My throat tightens. Maybe it's a coincidence. Maybe it's not.
I change direction, ducking into the convenience store on the corner. The bell chimes overhead, and the clerk barely looks up from his phone. I pretend to browse the gum rack, watching through the front glass.
The car hasn't moved.
My stomach twists.
I pull out my phone and text my best friend, Casey. She is probably just leaving her job at the bar now.
Me:
If I go missing, check my desk drawer.
She replies instantly:
Casey:
Jesus, Isa. What happened?
Me:
Probably nothing. Just… weird feeling.
Casey:
You and your weird feelings have gotten you shot at before.
Me:
Exactly why I trust them.
I pocket the phone, take a steadying breath, and step back outside.
The sedan's gone.
Relief should come. It doesn't.
I quicken my pace, eyes scanning every shadow. When I reach my building, I slip inside fast, locking the door and leaning against it. My heart won't calm.
The apartment's small but tidy—books everywhere, half-filled coffee mugs, corkboard walls covered in case notes. I cross to the window and draw the curtains.
The sound of rain against glass fills the silence. I toss my bag onto the couch, then sink down beside it, pulling out my laptop again. The file's still open on the screen:
Follow the river.
That's what the email said. I send Casey a message to let her know I got home.
I scroll through the transaction list again, whispering to myself as I map the routes. “River… river…”
And then it clicks.
East River Construction — one of the companies under the Moretti umbrella. The same company that secured a major city contract last year after the mayor's campaign fundraiser.
I open the public permits list. East River was awarded the project for the Brooklyn Pier redevelopment—public funds, private contract, millions in budget overruns.
And the same month the money vanished from the account, someone donated half a million to the mayor's reelection fund.
Got you.
The adrenaline hits like champagne bubbles in my blood. This is it. The proof.
But when I click to save the file, an error flashes across the screen.
Access Denied.
I frown, try again. Another error.
Then the document deletes itself—vanishes before my eyes.
“No, no, no—”
I unplug the Wi-Fi immediately, but it's too late. The cursor freezes, then the screen goes black.
The laptop hums. Restarts. Blank.
Every trace of my work is gone.
My stomach turns to ice. I back away slowly, staring at the dark screen.
Someone got in.
Someone wanted to make sure I couldn't finish what I started.
The city hums beyond my window, oblivious. But I can't shake the feeling that somewhere out there—in one of those blacked-out cars or high-rise offices—someone is watching, waiting, and smiling.
I cross to my closet, pull out the metal lockbox I keep for moments like this, and drop the USB inside. It holds backups—partial ones, but enough to rebuild the trail.
The rest… I'll have to start again tomorrow.
I sink onto the couch, exhaustion finally dragging at me. The hum of the fridge, the soft patter of rain, the pulse in my throat—all of it blends into white noise.
Just before I drift off, I think I hear it again.
That low, distant sound of power.
A car engine idles somewhere below my window.