Chapter 8 A Journalist’s Interview Trap #5
She glanced at Matteo, and for a second his eyes told her what his mouth wouldn’t: this wasn’t about the whistleblower anymore.
It was about her being seen as complicit.
A public hunt wasn’t just a threat. It was leverage.
The open-palmed man spoke again, voice almost gentle. “You should thank Mr. Matteo for bringing you to us alive.”
Matteo’s head tilted slightly. “Don’t use my name.”
The open-palmed man’s gaze flicked, amused. “You don’t like being referenced?”
Matteo’s tone stayed flat. “You shouldn’t be here.”
Elena felt the temperature drop in the corridor, like the fluorescent lights dimmed with the tension.
The second man shifted his weight. The sound of his shoes on concrete was too loud in the tight space.
Elena’s phone buzzed again in her pocket, and this time it wasn’t a notification request. The screen lit by itself - no touch from her - and a video call interface appeared.
Caller ID: Sandro Bellini.
Her blood went cold.
Matteo’s eyes snapped to her phone immediately. “Don’t answer.”
Elena’s throat tightened. “He’s calling me.”
The open-palmed man’s voice carried a pleased edge. “He’s not calling you. He’s calling your audience through your screen.”
Elena stared at the display. The call timer started counting down even though she hadn’t accepted.
A live feed overlay appeared on the screen’s edge - someone had already linked her phone to a broadcast. Someone had already turned her into a stage.
The corridor suddenly felt smaller than a closet. Elena could hear her heartbeat in her ears. She could taste copper in her mouth.
She didn’t want to answer. She didn’t want to give them anything.
But the screen kept insisting. The call kept counting.
Matteo’s hand hovered closer to her pocket, as if he could force the phone to shut off. As if he could take her out of the trap by taking the bait away.
The open-palmed man lifted a hand. “No.”
Matteo’s body stilled, just for a fraction.
Not because he obeyed. Because he assessed. Because he chose not to move without knowing what would happen to Elena’s phone in the process.
Elena’s mind flashed to the back room. The whistleblower’s trembling hands. The paper held like a confession. The way he’d said the call logs proved a link.
The way he’d guided her toward Sandro Bellini without ever giving her a chance to doubt him.
This wasn’t just misinformation.
It was a mechanism - something designed to trigger a public response the moment her evidence left the building.
Her fingers shook. She pulled the phone out anyway because refusing to look at a trap felt like refusing to see the teeth.
The screen brightened, and her face reflected back at her - rain-smeared, eyes wide.
The live feed started automatically, her camera switching on with a soft click. Elena saw herself in real time, framed like content.
She heard the faint hiss of her own microphone picking up the corridor. She heard the buzz of lights. She heard voices behind her like they were already being translated into a narrative.
A comment feed crawled across the screen, thousands of messages already stacked. Names. Accusations. People demanding she explain.
Elena’s voice came out raw. “I’m not answering.”
Matteo leaned in close enough that only she could hear him. “They want you to say something that incriminates you.”
Elena stared at the screen. The call interface still counted down.
The open-palmed man spoke louder now, like he was performing. “Ms. Russo, you’re being called. Don’t hide. Tell the truth.”
Elena’s stomach clenched. The word truth had been weaponized until it felt like profanity.
She looked at Matteo. His expression was controlled, but his eyes held something that made her chest ache - anger, yes, but also fear.
Not for himself.
For what she might do under this kind of pressure.
Elena’s hand rose toward the screen. Not to accept.
To end the call.
The moment her finger touched the red button, the live broadcast didn’t stop. The interface changed.
A new clip played over her camera view - audio only at first, then a video overlay with her silhouette blurred while a calm male voice spoke words that sounded like Elena’s own confession.
“You can’t stop what’s been done,” the voice said. “You can only decide how loudly you deny it.”
Elena’s breath hitched. “That’s not - ”
Matteo’s hand moved sharply then, slamming down on the phone to turn off the screen. The display went black.
For a second, silence swallowed the corridor.
Then Elena heard her own phone’s speaker crackle again - an audio file already playing from the device’s system, still broadcasting through the live connection before it fully died.
The open-palmed man’s face lit with satisfaction. “Still broadcasting. Still in your control.”
Elena yanked the phone back into her palm and tried to shut off whatever feed had started, but the device didn’t respond the way it should. It lagged, like it had been programmed to resist.
Matteo’s eyes went colder. “They installed something.”
The second man took another step forward, and the air tightened around Elena’s throat. “You’re coming with us.”
Elena’s voice shook. “No.”
Matteo didn’t argue. He shifted his stance, one