1
SOFIA
Five Years Ago
The newsroom is utterly disorganized. Phones scream like sirens, reporters charge past one another with wild eyes, and the smell of burned coffee clings to the air like smoke after a firefight. A television screen flashes BREAKING NEWS banners in rapid succession, each one a bombshell waiting to detonate. The hum of chaos is almost deafening, but to me, it’s just background noise.
I sit in the eye of the storm, my focus razor-sharp, the world narrowing to the cluttered, ravaged terrain of my desk. Papers sprawl across every available inch, photos curl at the edges under the weight of stapled reports, and a corkboard looms behind me, strung with red thread like a spiderweb spun from secrets.
The threads intersect at one name: The Lombardi Family.
This isn’t just a story. It’sthestory.
I drag my finger across one of the photos pinned to the board, tracing the clean, angular jawline of Vittorio Lombardi, the don of one of Nuova Speranza’s most powerful mafiafamilies. His eyes, even in the grainy surveillance image, glint with a cold cunning that makes my stomach tighten.
He’s untouchable, a kingpin draped in silk suits and bloody shadows, his empire stretching from the darkest corners of the city to the highest echelons of power. Of course, he holds nothing to the Salvatore empire, built from the ground up by Luca Salvatore, the ruling don of Nuova Speranza. The other mafia families operate under his protection and authority, but their power is conditional. Each month, they pay tribute, usually in cash, but sometimes in assets, favors, or territory. The rate varies depending on their income streams. Drug families owe more than those in extortion or gambling. The tributes are not symbolic. They buy permission to operate, protection from outside interference, and immunity from Luca’s own men.
No family can conduct hits, move product across districts, or expand rackets without his approval. Everything flows through his office. He holds the master keys to the city’s corruption: judges, inspectors, customs officers, union leaders, and a few elected officials who play dumb when his name is mentioned. Any don who defies him publicly is removed. Quietly if possible, violently if necessary.
Vittorio Lombardi runs a powerful family, but he still attends Luca’s sit-downs when summoned. He requests clearance before shifting cargo through Luca’s ports. He forwards ten percent of all dockside earnings, and another five if weapons are involved. He is allowed to keep his seat, his soldiers, and his face on the street, but he owes everything to Luca’s tolerance. The only difference is, while I abhor Luca, he’s morally gray. Lombardi is scum of the earth, a man who used to run trafficking rackets and only stopped when Luca made it impermissible. I’m sure it won’t be too long before he makes an attempt on the throne. That puts my best friend, Valentina, in danger simply because she’s Luca’s wife.
The world is better off without men like Vittorio Lombardi.And I’m going to destroy him.
A small smile tugs at my lips as I lean back in my chair, the squeak of the old springs lost beneath the newsroom’s relentless clamor. This is what I’ve spent years clawing my way toward: the chance to pull the curtain back on one of the city’s dirtiest secrets and expose the rot festering beneath its polished surface.
"Sofia!"
The voice snaps through my thoughts, and I glance up to see Daniel Voss, my editor-in-chief, weaving through the chaos. He’s a human hurricane, tie askew, glasses perched precariously on his nose, his bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lights. His expression is one part exasperation, two parts caffeine overdose. "Tell me you have something." He plants both hands on the edge of my desk.
"Good morning to you too, Daniel," I say dryly, shuffling a stack of papers to make room for his theatrics.
"Sofia," he growls, leaning closer, his voice charged. "Don’t play coy with me. We’re sitting on deadlines, and I’ve got advertisers threatening to pull out because they think we’re ‘too controversial’." He makes air quotes around the word, as though the mere suggestion of playing it safe physically pains him.
I meet his gaze unflinchingly. "I’m close," I say.
Daniel narrows his eyes. "Close isn’t a story. Close is you dangling your feet over the edge and calling it swimming."
"This isn’t just a story, Daniel." My voice sharpens, slicing through his doubt. "This is the Lombardi family. Corruption, racketeering, murder—it’s all here."
I tap the pile of evidence spread across my desk. "I just need one more piece. One more thread to pull, and the whole thing unravels."
For a moment, he studies me, his gaze darting between my face and the chaos on my desk. Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. "If you don’t have something concrete by?—"
"I’ll have it," I cut him off. If time is of the essence, there’s no point wasting any of it discussing variables.
He mutters something under his breath before storming off, barking orders at an unlucky intern on his way back to his office.
As soon as he’s out of earshot, I exhale, the tension draining from my shoulders. I glance at the clock on my computer screen—9:42 a.m.—and realize I’ve been here since before sunrise.
A half-empty cup of espresso sits forgotten next to my keyboard, cold and bitter, but I down it anyway, the jolt of caffeine burning down my throat.
My gaze shifts back to the corkboard, and I chew on my lower lip, my mind racing to map out the best path forward. Before I can get too far, my phone rings, its sharp trill cutting through my thoughts.
I snatch it up. "Sofia De Luca."
The voice on the other end is low, rough, and unmistakably terrified. "We need to meet."
My stomach knots. "Who is this?"
