Valentina's POV
The tyres screamed as I swung into the station compound, barely waiting for the car to stop before I jumped out.
I raced back to the station, my mind in overdrive.
Jimmy Martelli, dead in his cell. Suicide, they were saying.
I'd sat in that interrogation room with him just hours before.
I spotted Sergio talking to a uniformed officer near the holding cells. Alex caught my eye and nodded for me to join them.
"What's the situation?" I asked as I approached.
Alex's expression was grim. "Martelli was found hanging in his holding cell about an hour ago."
I frowned. "That doesn't add up. He didn't strike me as the type to give up that easily."
Alex shrugged. "Desperation does strange things to people. Maybe he thought it was better than facing 25 to life."
"He wasn't scared," I murmured, stepping closer. "He was planning to fight. Men who ask for lawyers don't kill themselves."
Alex leaned on the edge of the cot, gaze soft but analytical.
Sergio's jaw ticked. "Let it go, Vitale. The evidence says suicide."
Hours later, long after the body was taken away and the corridor cleared, I sat alone in my small office. Jimmy's file lay open in front of me. I traced his timeline, from petty arrests, street scuffles, gang affiliations.
Whatever Jimmy had been mixed up in was bigger than petty theft and drug busts.
I shut the file just as footsteps echoed down the empty hallway.
A knock sounded on my door.
Detective Moretti stepped inside and shut the door behind him, his expression was unreadable.
"Vitale," he said, "do you have a moment?."
I sat up straighter. "Yes sir"
"Martelli is finished." He closed the door behind him. "But the situation surrounding him isn't."
He slid a thin file onto my desk.
"What's this?"
"A new assignment," he said. "Quiet, and off the books. It is strictly undercover."
My pulse kicked harder. "Undercover?"
His gaze held mine. "Deep undercover."
"This operation won't have your name on it," he continued. "No badge. No backup you can see. Once you step in, you don't exist the way you do now."
I swallowed. "Who's the target?"
He hesitated just long enough to matter.
"Domenico," he said. "And everyone orbiting him."
My fingers curled against the desk.
"I'd like you to come to this location by 2am tonight", he said passing a card to me, "you'd be briefed on all you need to know."
He turned and left without another word.
I stared at the card in my hand.
Two a.m.
The address on the card led me underground.
Literally.
I passed through two checkpoints, surrendered my phone, my badge, my name.
Inside the room, the air was cold and sterile. A long table. Four men seated already. Faces I recognized from internal memos and their reputations.
People who didn't attend press briefings, and who decided what never made it into reports.
Moretti stood at the head, making the presentation.
"You're here because Martelli didn't kill himself," he said calmly.
A projector flickered to life.
Jimmy Martelli's face appeared first. Then it slid away.
Then, the next image froze my breath.
Enzo Domenico.
Older than I expected. He looked like someone's grandpa.
"This," Moretti said, "is the problem."
Another image followed.
Massimo. Domenico's son, obviously, a player, he had a bottle with babes around him.
Then the screen changed again.
Salvatore Esposito.
Dark hair, sharp features, and very handsome, I felt my heart flicker. He was not smiling, however, he did not seem threatening.
"He's opposition," one of the men said. "A kingpin in his own right. Not our primary target."
"Then why is he here?" I asked.
Because Salvatore Esposito," Moretti replied, "is the only man Domenico hasn't been able to destroy."
They explained it plainly. Domenico was no longer just running crime. He was reshaping entire districts. Buying police silence. Buying judges. Turning violence into routine. He didn't fear the law anymore. He'd stepped above it.
My job was to get close.
"You'll infiltrate through his supply chain," Moretti said. "Low visibility. Domestic access. Cleaning staff. Hospitality. Places men like him ignore."
I understood immediately.
Invisible women saw everything.
The hotel assignment came three weeks later, with a uniform that smelled like bleach. My credentials were forged so well even I almost believed them.
I was assigned to the VIP floor.
I was scrubbing the marble sink in one of the suites when the door opened.
I froze.
A man stepped inside, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and furious.
"Domenico is a bastard," he said in Italian. "He thinks because he owns half the city, he owns me."
I peeped through the door.
Salvatore Esposito.
My pulse slammed.
He paced the room, running a hand through his hair. "Tell him this. He touches one more shipment and I will bury him so deep his son won't find the bones."
He turned.
Saw me.
For half a second, neither of us moved.
His gaze swept over me, clinical, assessing, not missing a single thing, however, it was not leering, neither was it dismissive. Yet he was at alert.
I lowered my eyes instantly.
"Sorry," he said, switching off the call. Polite. Almost gentle. "I didn't realize anyone was here."
"I'm almost done," I replied softly, accent dulled, posture small.
He nodded once. Stepped back toward the door. Then paused.
For one terrible moment, I thought he'd say something else.
Instead, he left.
The door clicked shut.
I didn't breathe until my hands started shaking.
That night, I filed my report. Every word he'd said. Every name. Every inflection.
Two hours later, my burner phone rang.
"You weren't compromised," Moretti said. "Good work."
I stared at the ceiling, heart still racing.
I had been invisible.
And Salvatore Esposito had looked straight at me.
I had the uneasy sense that the next time he did, I wouldn't be.