"You know who," the voice hisses. "I have what you’re looking for. But we can’t talk over the phone. Meet me tonight. Pier Seventeen. Midnight."
Pier Seventeen. Lombardi territory.
Before I can ask another question, the line goes dead, leaving me clutching the receiver as the hum of the newsroom crashes back in around me. My pulse pounds in my ears, every instinct screaming at me to tread carefully.
But careful isn’t how you expose a family like the Lombardis.
I stare at the photo of Vittorio Lombardi pinned to my corkboard, his cold, calculating eyes taunting me like a dare.
Grabbing a highlighter, I start flipping through my notes, each page a piece of a puzzle so damning that it makes me feel both exhilarated and nauseous. My hands shake as I find the first file I’m looking for.
Corruption.
The Lombardis aren’t just criminals; they’re the architects of a system so deeply rooted in Nuova Speranza’s institutions that it feels almost untouchable.
I’ve got spreadsheets detailing bribes paid to city officials, shell corporations laundering money through "charitable donations", and even a photograph of Vittorio Lombardi shaking hands with the city’s mayor at a private fundraiser last fall.
There are emails too, leaked to me by a whistleblower, proving election results were rigged. Votes were bought and candidates eliminated—literally.
I run the highlighter across the incriminating lines, marking them in neon yellow, the anger simmering in my chest growing hotter with each stroke.
Next, I pull up the testimonies.
Human trafficking.
I skim the names of the survivors I’ve interviewed—women, men, and even children who were sucked into the Lombardis’ monstrous machine and spat out broken. Their voices echo in my mind. The woman who whispered about being auctioned off at a warehouse under the glow of a single flickering bulb stands out clearly from my work doing interviews.
I think of the young boy, no older than thirteen, who described the ships in excruciating detail—cages, chains, and the endless sound of waves as they were carted off to God knows where.
One survivor’s testimony haunts me the most. Ava, twenty-two, former college student. She sat across from me in a dingy coffee shop, her hands trembling as she described how sheescaped. "They killed anyone who disobeyed," she’d said, her voice hollow, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "I watched it happen."
My chest tightens as I add a note in bold pen to Ava’s file.Dig deeper into Ava’s intel on Port Thirteen. Match dates with cargo shipments.
Finally, I pull the last file from the stack.
Murder for hire.
This is the part that keeps me up at night. Dozens of unsolved murders tied back to the Lombardis—city council members, investigative journalists, even small business owners who refused to cooperate.
I’ve got police reports that mysteriously disappeared from public records, witness statements that were buried, and a few names of hitmen whispered in the back rooms of the city’s underbelly.
But the most damning evidence? A grainy photo I received anonymously of a man I’d been investigating—Deputy Mayor John Kerrigan—two days before his body was found dumped in the river. His crime? Publicly criticizing the city’s unchecked corruption.
I highlight the date of Kerrigan’s death, matching it to a known Lombardi meeting at a private club the same night. My pen hesitates over the file for a second before I scribble in the margins.Follow up with PD on Kerrigan’s autopsy report. Was it tampered with?
I lean back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose. My pulse pounds in my ears, a relentless rhythm reminding me how far I’ve dug myself into this pit. This isn’t just a story anymore—it’s a war.
And I’m all too aware of what that means.
My thoughts flicker to Valentina, my best friend. Forced into a marriage with Luca Salvatore to pay off her family’s debts.It’s a life she never asked for, and one I know she’ll never truly escape—even though she acts like she’s part of it.
But as much as I hate Luca Salvatore and what he represents, even I have to admit he’s different from the Lombardis. The Salvatores take care of the people who fall through the cracks—sponsoring schools, funding shelters, paying for hospital bills when no one else will.
The Lombardis? They destroy. They bleed the city dry. They steal people’s lives and leave the corpses behind as a warning.
That thought fuels me as I gather my notes, shoving them into a manila folder and tucking it under my arm. I gather my notes, clutching them tightly as I head out of the office. I have a meeting to get to, and if it goes well, I may bethatmuch closer to the Lombardis.
Outdoors, the city glows under the fading light of dusk, the streets of Nuova Speranza alive with a pulsing rhythm all their own. Neon signs buzz to life above storefronts, their harsh colors spilling onto the pavement, mingling with the warm golden glow of streetlights.
