Chapter 23 The Campaign Office Raid #3
He reached for his own phone anyway and pulled up the internal directory he’d accessed earlier. He found the mailroom extension. He didn’t dial. He used the burner’s handshake to push a request into the system.
The line clicked.
A woman’s voice answered, brisk. “Campaign office.”
Enzo kept his tone calm. “This is Enzo Moretti. I need access to the mailroom for an urgent document security breach.”
A pause. “Mr. Moretti, you are not authorized for that wing.”
Enzo stared at the glass partition as if he could see through the building’s wiring. “You are authorized for the mailroom. I’m not asking for wing access. I’m asking for document custody.”
The voice went quiet. Too quiet. Like someone had handed her lines to read.
“Standing orders say candidate stays in designated area,” the woman replied.
Valentina’s eyes narrowed. “Candidate stays in designated area.”
Enzo turned his head just slightly. “You’re repeating orders.”
The woman’s voice tightened. “I’m following procedure.”
Enzo forced patience into his voice like it was a tool he could use. “Procedure for what? For a breach that already happened?”
A faint click sounded on the other end, like someone else had leaned in close to listen. Enzo imagined a room full of people watching him from behind a screen.
Valentina’s fingertips brushed Enzo’s sleeve. “This is a dead end.”
“It’s not a dead end,” Enzo said. “It’s a corridor. And corridors have doors.”
He ended the call and moved toward the press desk where a delivery log sat open. The pages were clean. Too clean. Like someone expected them to be seen.
Valentina hovered behind him, her body rigid. “Don’t touch anything.”
Enzo glanced at her, and something in her expression made him understand: she wasn’t just protecting herself from scandal. She was protecting him from becoming the villain in her story again.
He nodded once. “I won’t steal. I’ll seize what’s already moving.”
He scanned the delivery log without picking it up. The entries listed transfers between compliance and private security. Times. Signatures.
A blank line sat near the top, dated an hour ago.
Enzo’s pulse spiked. “They’re using the gap.”
Valentina leaned closer, her perfume sharp enough to cut through the toner smell. “What gap?”
Enzo pointed with his eyes only. “An entry that should have been documented. The sealed pact binder transfer. But it’s blank. Someone took it without logging.”
Valentina’s face went pale. “So the binder is gone.”
“Or it’s being moved without a paper trail,” Enzo said. “Which means it’s going to be carried by someone who can claim authority.”
Valentina’s gaze darted to the corridor. “Private security.”
Enzo’s jaw clenched. “Or compliance.”
He looked at the guard again, who still stood at the corridor door like a gatekeeper waiting for Enzo to misstep. Enzo could feel the mastermind’s plan shaping itself: block Enzo, make Valentina lose faith, and then release a message that pinned the blame on Enzo.
He needed to beat the release.
He moved toward the corridor door where the private security team waited. His steps sounded too loud in the office’s quiet tension. The bullpen press desks reflected him in strips of glass - Enzo, Enzo, Enzo, like the building was multiplying him into a threat.
Valentina followed, her heels clicking a beat behind.
The guard blocked the door again. “Mr. Moretti - ”
Enzo didn’t show his card this time. He didn’t argue. He lifted his chin toward the guard’s radio. “Who’s speaking to you?”
The guard’s eyes flicked toward the radio as if it might bite him. “Compliance.”
Enzo leaned in. “Name.”
The guard’s mouth tightened. “I can’t.”
Enzo’s voice sharpened. “You can.”
The guard swallowed. “Donato’s handler.”
Enzo felt the internal conflict slam into him again. He could force the guard. He could intimidate him into names. But that risked a confrontation on camera. That risked Valentina’s protection being turned into an accusation.
He turned slightly, so Valentina could see his face. “He won’t give me a name. But he can give me a route.”
Valentina’s eyes widened. “Route?”
Enzo nodded toward the door control panel. “You said you’re locked out. Someone with higher clearance can open it.”
Valentina’s jaw worked. “And you’re going to - ”
Enzo cut her off with a look. “I’m going to use what they’ve already given me.”
He stepped back and glanced around the bullpen, at the press desks, at the delivery counter. At the small wall-mounted cabinet labeled VISITORS’ CHECK-IN. It was a mundane box, a bureaucratic prop.
But the mastermind understood bureaucracy better than Enzo’s fists ever could.
He walked to the cabinet and yanked it open.
Valentina’s breath caught. “Enzo - ”
He pulled out a visitor log and a stack of badges. The badges were blank, waiting for names to be printed. Each badge had a magnet strip with access levels.
He flipped the log pages without removing them fully. His eyes snagged on a line from just minutes ago: a name typed, but handwritten initials below.
The handwriting wasn’t Donato’s. It was too sharp. Too controlled.
And the badge number matched a badge issued to “M. G.” with access to the secured corridor.
Enzo’s pulse thudded hard. “M. G.”
Valentina stared. “That could be - ”
“It could be a coincidence,” Enzo said, but his mind didn’t believe in coincidences anymore. “Or it could be Donato’s handler using initials to obscure identity.”
He looked up. “Where did the badge get scanned?”
Valentina’s gaze tracked his movement, scanning the wall for a reader. She found it. A small screen near the door control panel had glitched earlier when her credential was denied. Now it displayed a timestamp and a badge number.
Enzo leaned toward it, close enough to smell the plastic heat from the electronics. The screen read: ACCESS GRANTED - BADGE M. G. - RECORDED.
Recorded.
Valentina’s face went hard. “Recorded for what?”
Enzo’s throat tightened. “For a narrative.”
He heard the footsteps again - closer now, in the corridor behind the glass. A group moved with purpose, the sound of shoes crisp on tile.
Not the heavy security team. Not the compliance unit cadence.
A different kind of presence.
Enzo straightened. “They’re coming.”
Valentina’s hand slid to the edge of her handbag, where her phone sat. She didn’t pull it out yet. She was waiting, calculating.
Enzo’s mind flashed to the last message they’d received: his own voice recorded to manipulate commands and create confusion among his protectors. That meant their enemy could weaponize communication channels like puppets.
If the mastermind could record Enzo’s voice, he could record anything.
Including a confession.
Including a blame statement.
Including a message that would turn Valentina’s fear into a weapon against Enzo’s identity.
The private security guard’s radio crackled again. He listened, then looked at Enzo with a strange resignation. Like he’d been ordered to let Enzo run into the trap.
The door to the secured corridor unlocked with a soft
click that sounded too clean for a place full of politics. The glass partition behind the door caught the fluorescent light and threw it back in pale bands across Valentina’s face.
Enzo didn’t exhale until the hinge stopped moving. He pushed through first, shoulder angled, watching for movement in the corridor beyond - watching for hands in black gloves, watching for the kind of stillness that meant someone was already waiting with the right angle.
Valentina followed, her coat brushing his arm. The fabric was warm from her body, a brief reminder of skin and temperature, of a person who could still choose to stand close - or step away.
Inside, the secured corridor narrowed. The walls were a matte gray that swallowed sound. The air smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and old paper, like someone tried to sterilize history.
A camera dome sat in the ceiling corner, its lens glossy and indifferent.
Enzo’s gaze tracked it anyway.
“Donato would’ve shut this down,” Valentina murmured, voice tight. “If he were here.”
Enzo didn’t look at her. “Then he isn’t.”
That was the first barrier that mattered - more than locks, more than immunity, more than private security that refused to respond to his authority. This was the barrier of absence. The kind that turned every plan into a question mark.
A security guard stood at the far end of the corridor, not blocking the way - just positioned like furniture. His expression was blank, his eyes too cautious. When Enzo approached, the guard’s radio crackled once, then went silent again.
The guard’s gaze flicked to Valentina’s badge, then away.
Enzo stopped three feet from the guard. “Where is Donato Greco?”
The guard’s mouth opened, then closed. His throat bobbed like he was swallowing something bitter.
“I don’t - ” he began.
Valentina cut in, tone like a blade drawn slow. “You will.”
The guard’s eyes darted toward a side door marked ARCHIVE HOLDINGS. “They told us to - ”
“Who?” Enzo pressed, keeping his voice low. If this was a trap, volume gave it drama.
The guard’s lips tightened. “The handler. The one with the authorization.”
Enzo’s chest went cold. “The one you recognized?”
The guard hesitated for a heartbeat too long. That pause was an answer.
Valentina’s hand tightened around her phone strap. Enzo saw her swallow. She wasn’t only afraid for herself. She was afraid of being turned into an instrument - afraid that her own fear would be edited and played back until it sounded like guilt.
“We’re going to the archive door,” Enzo said. “Now.”
The guard’s head tilted. Not defiant - terrified. “It’s locked.”
“Unlock it,” Enzo demanded, and he pulled his own credentials from his jacket - not with pride, but with force. The kind that demanded cooperation because he didn’t have time to negotiate.
The guard stared at the badge like it was a foreign language. “Your credentials aren’t valid here.”