The magazine office hung thick with the scent of stale coffee and the sharp, metallic tang of desperation.
Mia ambushed me by the copier.
"So?" she whispered, her eyes darting around to ensure we were alone. "Did you pay the bill? What happened?"
I looked at her, my throat tight. I couldn't tell her the truth. The NDA I signed was ironclad. One word, and I would disappear.
"I sorted it out," I said, forcing a calm I didn't feel.
Mia narrowed her eyes. "You look different," she said. "You look... scared."
"I am just tired," I lied.
Suddenly, the door to the Editor-in-Chief's office flew open with a violence that rattled the glass. Mr. Henderson stepped out, his face flushed.
"Everyone listen up!" he yelled.
The room went deathly quiet.
"Advertising is pulling out," he said, his voice echoing in the stunned silence. "We have one week to find a headline that sells. If we don't, we are closing the doors."
He looked around the room, his gaze heavy. "Who has something?"
Silence.
My hand went up before my brain could stop it.
"Elena?" he asked, skepticism etched into his brow. "You have a lead?"
I took a deep breath. "I have an inside look at Vitiello Holdings," I said.
The room gasped. Henderson stared at me.
"You're lying," he said. "Vitiello is a ghost."
"I have a source," I said, my voice trembling slightly. "A direct line."
Henderson looked at me for a long moment, weighing my desperation against his own.
"You have one week, Rossini," he said. "Bring me something real, or don't bother coming back."
I sat down at my desk, my knees weak. My hands were shaking.
I started researching. I pulled up the old archives, where the Vitiello family history was written in blood. Racketeering. Extortion. Murder.
Dante's father had been assassinated in a restaurant. Dante had taken over at twenty-two. He had cleaned house. The articles described him as a brilliant strategist and a ruthless killer.
I was tethered to a monster.
My phone rang. It was a private number. I knew who it was.
I picked up. "Hello?"
"Be ready at seven," Dante said.
No pleasantries. No greeting.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"The Gala," he said, his voice a low rumble. "It is a charity event. The Mayor will be there. And the Morettis."
I felt a knot form in my stomach. "Dante," I said, gripping the phone tighter. "I need to start the interview."
Silence on the other end.
"I need material," I pressed. "If I'm going to play this part, I need to know who you are."
I heard him exhale, a harsh sound through the receiver.
"Send your questions to Matteo," he said.
"No," I said, feeling a sudden surge of boldness born of necessity. "I need to hear it from you. Tonight. Before the Gala."
There was a long pause. I thought he was going to hang up.
"You are pushing your luck, Elena," he said.
"I am doing my job," I countered.
He chuckled. It was a dark, low sound, devoid of humor.
"Fine," he said. "Come to the penthouse an hour early. Do not be late."
The line went dead.
I stared at the phone, my heart hammering against my ribs. I was playing a dangerous game. I was walking a tightrope between a failing career and a violent death.
But as I looked at the picture of Dante on my computer screen-a blurry photo of him leaving a courthouse-I realized something terrifying.
I wasn't just doing this for the story anymore.
I wanted to know what was behind those cold, dead eyes. I wanted to see the man beneath the monster.
And that curiosity was going to get me killed.
