New York didn't sleep.
Neither did Alina Monroe.
With coffee in one hand and her phone in the other, she stood on the rooftop of her apartment building, the cold wind tugging at her coat. The city buzzed beneath her — traffic, sirens, the occasional shout. She liked the noise. It made her feel small in the best way.
And tonight, she needed to feel small.
Because tomorrow, she was going to do something very big.
She was finally getting her shot at The Edge, a political media blog known for its fearless takes and risky stories. But she wasn't covering some election or scandal — she'd be following a trail of whispers about New York's most dangerous secret.
The Romano family.
People didn't write about the Romanos. They didn't even say the name in the newsroom unless they wanted HR to "politely" tell them to back off. But Alina was stubborn. And nosy. And honestly? A little tired of writing fluff pieces about senators and startup bros.
She was going after the mafia.
Down in the city, Dominic Romano was also wide awake.
A black Maserati slid through the Lower East Side like a shark through still water. Behind the wheel sat the heir to the Romano family empire — black leather gloves, sharp jawline, and a face that belonged on magazine covers, not FBI watchlists.
He wasn't smiling. He never did.
Tonight, he had business. The kind that left bruises.
But just before turning onto Canal Street, he saw her.
A girl on a rooftop. Tall enough for him to make out the curve of her silhouette. She was looking down at the city like it belonged to her. Or maybe like she was about to challenge it.
Something about her made him slow the car.
"Keep driving," his cousin muttered from the passenger seat, counting cash. "You're not getting soft on me, are you?"
Dominic didn't answer. His eyes stayed on the rooftop a second longer… then he pressed the gas again.
Alina didn't know she'd already caught the eye of the man she was investigating.
The next day, she was dressed in black slacks and a white blouse, tucked behind a laptop in a crowded café two blocks from Romano Enterprises — the legit face of a not-so-legit family.
She was waiting for someone.
Her source.
At exactly 3:15 p.m., a man sat across from her. Nervous. Late 30s. Probably once handsome, but worn down by fear. He slid her a flash drive across the table like they were in a movie.
"I don't want trouble," he whispered.
"You won't get it," she lied, pocketing the drive.
But before she could even stand, the man's eyes widened. He stood too fast, knocking over his coffee, and bolted out the café's side door.
Alina blinked. "What the—"
Then someone sat in his place.
Black gloves. Cold stare.
Dominic Romano.
Her throat went dry. He didn't speak at first, just picked up the fallen coffee cup and placed it upright like it wasn't soaked through. Then he leaned forward.
"You're not from The Edge," he said quietly. "You're from trouble."
Alina swallowed. "Excuse me—"
"You've been following me for two weeks. You wear the same perfume. Your boots are too loud. And you always sit near the windows." His gaze dipped for a second. "You're brave. Or stupid. Maybe both."
Alina felt her heart banging in her chest, but she still managed to raise her brow. "You memorized my boots?"
That made him pause. And smirk.
"I memorize threats."
"Well, that's funny," she said, trying to keep her cool. "Because I'm just a journalist."
"And I'm just a businessman," he replied, tone like velvet and gunmetal.
The tension between them sat heavy in the air. Her eyes were challenging. His were unreadable.
"You should leave this story alone," Dominic said. "Before it swallows you."
"I don't scare easy."
"Then you're not paying attention."
He stood up. Looked down at her one last time. "Walk away, Miss Monroe."
And just like that, he disappeared out the door like smoke.
Alina sat frozen for a second… then smiled to herself.
She had just met the devil in a tailored suit.
And he knew her name.
Alina leaned back in the stiff chair of her apartment's dining nook, scrolling through the crime reports like she was playing bingo. A missing arms shipment here, a suspicious death there — all dots waiting to be connected.
Her instincts were buzzing. Something big was brewing in the city. The Romano family's name kept whispering around the edges of it all, never quite mentioned, but always there.
She took a bite of cold pizza, eyes narrowing as a new report popped up. A fire at a private club in the industrial district. No casualties, but heavy damage and…a single arrest.
Name: Marco Santino.
Affiliation: Romano crime family (suspected).
Her heart skipped. Finally, a thread.
She grabbed her notebook and started scribbling, not realizing the shadow watching her from across the street.
Dominic stood in the upper level of the opposite building, one hand in his pocket, the other holding a phone to his ear.
"She's digging," he muttered.
His voice was low, unreadable.
"Should I scare her off?" the voice on the other end asked.
"No," Dominic said, eyes still locked on the faint silhouette of Alina through her open window. "Let her look. I want to see how far she's willing to go."
A pause.
"Or how close she's willing to get."
The next evening, Alina slipped into her favorite brown coat, pulled her curls into a loose bun, and headed to the club that had burned the night before. There were still police lines taped across the entrance, but she'd never let something as flimsy as yellow tape stop her.
She ducked under and moved fast.
Charred wood. Glass crunched under her boots. The air still smelled of smoke and danger. Perfect.
She snapped pictures, her breath visible in the night chill. But just as she moved toward the back room, a voice spoke behind her—calm, deep, and unsettlingly familiar.
"You have a habit of being places you shouldn't be."
Her blood turned cold.
She spun around.
Dominic Romano.
Black shirt, black coat, black boots. Sharp jawline. Even sharper eyes.
"You," she said, heart hammering. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"I could ask you the same." He stepped closer, his presence like a slow, steady storm. "But I won't. Because I already know."
She swallowed, trying not to show how off-balance she felt. "I'm a reporter. I dig. That's what we do."
His lips twitched into something that wasn't quite a smile. "And sometimes, digging gets people buried."
"You threatening me?"
"Just offering perspective."
They stood in silence, the tension between them crackling like fire in dry leaves.
Then Dominic tilted his head slightly, eyes scanning her face like he was reading her mind.
"I don't know if you're brave… or just foolish."
"I don't know if you're charming… or just dangerous."
He stepped back, still watching her. "Stay out of this, Monroe."
Her breath caught. He knew her name.
"And if I don't?"
He smiled fully this time—dark and slow and wicked. "Then things might get very interesting."
And with that, he turned and walked out into the night, disappearing like he'd never been there at all.