The city seemed colder the next morning. The gray skies, the sharp wind, the buzz of life all felt muted—like the world knew I was one wrong move away from losing everything.
I sat in my apartment, the photographs spread across the table in front of me. Each one was a reminder of how deep I was in this mess. The Calvinis. Lorenzo. Carlo's warnings. And now the man from the café, whose calm threat lingered in my mind like a stain I couldn't scrub out.
"You don't have to die for someone else's war."
But it wasn't just someone else's war anymore. It was mine.
I spent the morning alternating between staring at the evidence and pacing the room. Every time I thought about Lorenzo's offer to stay close to him, my stomach twisted.
I didn't trust him—not really. But he wasn't wrong about one thing: I couldn't do this alone.
I grabbed my phone and dialed Carlo. He answered on the second ring, his voice sharp with concern.
"Elena, what's wrong?"
"I need your help," I said, cutting straight to the point. "I'm going to make my next move, and I can't do it without you."
There was a pause on the other end of the line. "What kind of move are we talking about?"
"One that makes the Calvinis think twice before coming after me again," I said.
"Elena," Carlo said slowly, "this isn't just about making a statement. If you take a shot at them, you'd better make sure it lands. Otherwise—"
"I know," I interrupted. "They'll kill me."
Another pause. Then Carlo sighed heavily. "I'm coming over."
An hour later, Carlo stood in my living room, his arms crossed as he studied the photographs on the table.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he said finally.
I crossed my arms, leaning back against the counter. "I'm already in the game, Carlo. The only question is whether I'm going to win or lose."
He looked up at me, his expression grim. "What's your plan?"
I hesitated. "I need to send them a message."
"How?"
I picked up one of the photographs—the one of Petrucci meeting with a member of the Calvinis—and held it up. "This. This is proof that the prosecution was working with the Calvinis to frame Lorenzo."
"And?" Carlo asked, frowning.
"And if I release it," I said, "it doesn't just expose the Calvinis' influence—it shows the whole city that they're not untouchable."
Carlo stared at me like I'd lost my mind. "You're talking about starting a war, Elena."
"They already started it," I snapped. "I'm just trying to survive it."
Carlo spent the next hour trying to talk me out of it, but I was determined.
The Calvinis had spent years building their empire on fear and secrecy. If I pulled back the curtain, even just a little, I could disrupt their control—at least for long enough to make them think twice about coming after me.
It was risky. Reckless, even. But I was out of options.
By the time evening rolled around, I had a plan in place.
I stood in front of my laptop, my heart pounding as I uploaded the photograph to an encrypted email. My fingers hovered over the keyboard for a moment before I typed out a brief message:
"Proof of corruption in the Santini trial. Share wisely."
I sent it to three trusted contacts in the media—journalists I knew wouldn't back down from a fight, even if it meant taking on the Calvinis.
The second the email was sent, I felt a strange mix of relief and terror.
There was no turning back now.
Later that night, I sat on my couch, staring at my phone as the minutes ticked by. I half-expected it to ring with another call from the Calvinis—or worse, Lorenzo.
But instead, the first notification I got was from one of the journalists.
"This is explosive, Elena. Are you ready for what comes next?"
I stared at the message, my stomach twisting.
No, I wasn't ready. But that didn't matter anymore.
The story broke the next morning.
"LEAKED PHOTO EXPOSES CORRUPTION IN SANTINI TRIAL."
"CALVINI CONNECTION TO PROSECUTION REVEALED."
"SHOCKING EVIDENCE POINTS TO MAJOR COVER-UP."
The headlines were everywhere. The photograph was plastered across every news site and social media feed in Milan.
And just like that, the Calvinis' carefully constructed facade began to crack.
I sat in my apartment, glued to the TV as pundits debated the implications of the leak. Some called for investigations into the prosecution. Others speculated about what this meant for the Calvini family's influence in the city.
But one thing was clear: I'd thrown a grenade into the heart of their operation.
The phone call came just after noon.
"Elena," Lorenzo's voice was calm, but there was an edge to it.
"What do you want?" I asked, my heart racing.
"You've made a bold move," he said. "But boldness doesn't guarantee safety."
"Is that a warning?"
"It's advice," Lorenzo said. "The Calvinis aren't going to let this go. You've embarrassed them. Exposed them. Now they're going to want revenge."
"I know," I said quietly.
There was a pause on the other end of the line.
"Come see me," Lorenzo said finally. "We need to talk."
I hesitated. "Why?"
"Because whether you like it or not, you've just become the most dangerous player on the board," he said. "And you can't win this game alone."
The call ended, leaving me with a choice I wasn't ready to make.
Lorenzo was right—I couldn't win this alone. But trusting him felt like handing him a knife and asking him not to stab me with it.
The headlines kept flashing across the screen, a constant reminder of the chaos I'd unleashed.
I sat back, staring at the photograph of Petrucci on my phone.
The lines had been drawn.
Now I just had to decide which side I was on.