Valentina's POV
Sunday, Dawn
I hadn't slept.
The sky outside my apartment window was just beginning to pale, a thin wash of gray stretching over the rooftops, and my kitchen table looked like the aftermath of a quiet storm. Notebooks open. Pages layered over each other.
My recording device resting beside a mug of coffee that had long since gone cold.
I pressed play again.
Massimo's voice spilled into the room, slurred but sharp enough to cut. The pregnancy talk, with him bragging. The way he said her name like it belonged to him. The toast.
"To fucking the Espositos."
Laughter erupted, loud and confident, men who believed themselves untouchable.
I wrote everything down. Names at the table. Faces I'd already memorized. His friends, witnesses, associates. The businessman who pretended to be legitimate. The two bodyguards who barely spoke but listened to everything.
I documented the operational pieces too, the move north, Catania becoming a stronger corridor, the overland routes that bypassed ports under scrutiny.
Then the political gossip, who owned which councilman, who funded which campaign, which prosecutor preferred envelopes to principles.
Every word preserved.
"She begged for it," Massimo's recorded voice said again.
More laughter.
I paused the device.
The intelligence was good, very solid, and useful.
That wasn't what unsettled me.
Francesca Esposito was not a rumor. Not a surname in a file. She was a twenty five year old woman carrying a child while men turned her into entertainment.
And I had sat there.
Smiling.
Listening.
Doing nothing.
I leaned back in the chair and let the ceiling blur above me.
I'm undercover. I can't intervene.
Valdina wouldn't care what Massimo says about a rival family's pregnant sister.
Valdina would laugh, lift her champagne glass, pretend it was all deliciously scandalous.
But Valentina wanted to walk across that table and break his jaw.
Good thing Valdina was in charge.
I closed the notebook, showered until the hot water ran thin, dressed simply, hair pulled back. When I checked my phone there was a message from Alex.
Debrief. 2 PM. Safe house.
Six hours to steady myself.
I decided to walk instead of drive. Let the air clear the taste of last night from my lungs.
Let Valdina settle comfortably back into place before I stepped into a room where every word would be dissected.
.
The safe house always smelled faintly of bleach and old paper, sterile in a way that tried too hard. Alex, Moretti, two analysts, recording equipment already set up.
Alex nodded for me to begin.
"Walk us through Azure. Everything."
I did.
I described the club, the seating arrangement, the drinking, the cocaine on the glass table, the rhythm of Massimo's speech as he grew louder and looser. I detailed the operational talk, Catania expansion, overland logistics, timelines that matched patterns they had been tracking. Then I moved to the pregnancy discussion.
Word for word.
When I finished, the room held its breath.
Moretti's voice was even. "He said all of this publicly?"
"VIP section. Around thirty within earshot."
"And you recorded it?"
"Yes, sir."
They played it back. Massimo's voice filled the sterile room, arrogance amplified by cheap speakers. The toast. The laughter. The analysts writing quickly. Alex's jaw tightening. Moretti's face unreadable.
When the recording ended, one analyst spoke about character evidence, another about motive and state of mind.
Moretti observed that if the Espositos heard this it could accelerate escalation. Alex replied that they probably already had.
I added quietly that Massimo wanted people to know. He believes being Enzo Domenico's son makes him consequence proof.
Moretti's eyes sharpened at that.
Then we moved to the operational intelligence again, refining timelines, flagging ports, discussing surveillance northbound. When it was done, Moretti gave a single nod.
"This is the access we needed, Vitale. Well done."
"Thank you, sir."
Moretti folded his hands, tone shifting.
"The pregnancy has altered the dynamic. It's no longer personal. It's strategic."
My spine straightened instinctively. "How do you want to expand?"
"We need you monitoring interactions between the Domenico and Esposito families directly. Negotiations, threats, meetings, any sign of escalation."
Alex slid files across the table.
Salvatore Esposito. Thirty four. Head of family. Controlled, intelligent eyes in the photograph.
Alessandro Esposito. Thirty two. Lawyer. Legitimate front.
Francesca Esposito. Twenty five. Pregnant.
I studied her photo longer than I meant to.
"She looks like a kid."
"She's twenty five," Alex said.
"She looks younger."
Moretti continued, explaining how proximity under pressure creates mistakes, how war makes evidence visible, how the unborn child had become leverage for both sides.
If they negotiate, we need terms. If they move toward violence, we need warning.
Alex added that Domenico hosts an annual gathering, old families, long memories.
"A party," I said.
"An opportunity."
"As Massimo's date."
"As whatever gets you inside."
.
.
That evening my phone lit up.
Rico.
Massimo's requested you exclusively. You work for him now.
Understood. When?
Tomorrow night. Club Nero. 9 PM. Dress nice.
Another message came through from an unknown number. A photo of a black dress, elegant, expensive, the kind that suggests ownership more than affection.
Wear this. – M
He was already curating me.
Controlling what I wore, where I went, how I appeared beside him.
I typed back that it was beautiful, thanked him, played the part perfectly.
Then set the phone down and stared at the ceiling for a long time.
.