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ISABELLA

“ C ome on, Vitelli. Where the hell are you?” Sitting at this cafe all morning is making my back ache. The white metal chairs aren't meant for long-term comfort, apparently.

And the way my day is going, it’s looking like a huge waste of time.

The guy might not even be staying at the luxurious hotel across the street. But my gut is rarely wrong.

It's what would make me an incredible reporter if I could do something other than this vapid tabloid garbage that I currently do for a living.

At least it pays the bills.

My apartment in Rome is not cheap. Fortunately, my editor pays top dollar for photos of lewd public acts by celebrities, scandals, and the like. Politicians, musicians, and in this case, sports stars. Their dalliances are all the rage for our readers, the typical crap you see on the newsstand.

Which is another problem altogether. I’m stuck in a dying medium. One I fell in love with when I was younger, thinking I could be a real journalist—a reporter, traveling the world.

The only real truth I’ve uncovered so far is that the average movie star likes to cheat on their spouse. That and the fact that my dream was a little misguided.

And the truth shall…set you up for disappointment.

At my core, though, I am a sleuth. And I am so very passionate about my work, any work I set my mind to. I love to uncover the hidden facts, hunt down leads, and solve mysteries.

Which is why I almost became a cop like my brother and my father.

“There you are, Arturo…who were you visiting at such a fancy hotel in the middle of the day?”

I snap a few photos, catching him looking around, checking to see if he’s recognized in his hat and sunglasses. Nothing to see, Vitelli. Your secret’s safe with me. Not Mario, though. My boss is going to roast you on the front page.

Especially if he was hooking up with who I think he was.

Only a moment later, a woman exits the building in much the same way, almost laughably goose-necking, a nervous tension to her pose. She spots him and hustles down the street in her high heels to catch him a block later, pulling him into an alley, pushing him up against the wall, and kissing him.

No one notices the woman standing across the street, just a tourist, snapping shots of the architecture. I zoom in, catching him smiling, laughing, and protesting her being so bold in public.

Her identity isn’t exactly important to the scoop, but I am curious. Her scarf, glasses, and her hand blocking the sun's rays have kept me from getting a good look.

All that aside, what is most important is that Arturo Vitelli, a world-famous soccer player slated to be heading to the World Cup in a few weeks, is running around on his pregnant wife.

It makes me feel like just as much of a sleazebag for hunting him down for juicy gossip.

She drops her hand, letting him pull off her glasses, and I almost gasp.

Her name isn’t particularly important, her last name is.

Mira Petrona.

Her husband owns half the banks in the country. And he is rumored to be highly influential in parliament. As in, he is best friends with our prime minister.

His young trophy wife is clearly interested in more than just politics. She’s also flaunting herself out here for anyone to see, for the papers to snap a photo.

My investigative brain goes wild, wondering if she’s doing it on purpose or out of blind passion. I’ve found that most people are either calculating, hyper-aware of how their actions might be seen, or they’re oblivious—so self-centered that they don’t think it matters.

Either way, she’ll be in the news for this in no time.

Spilling the story first will get me a bonus. More papers sold and more site subs means I get to keep my job too.

They split up after another long, sloppy kiss, all caught on my DSLR.

“Where are you headed, Mira?” I mutter, losing interest in Vitelli. He’s no use to me without a secret lover. But she’s tied to even more interesting people, bigger fish with bigger dirt.

She’s clearly up to something, so I follow, keeping enough distance to stay out of sight. Mira stays oblivious, however, clearly engrossed in her own thoughts and where she’s headed.

Three blocks along, I start to doubt that this tail will turn up anything until she turns into a bar—a seedy-looking place that has seen better days. And the type of place she wouldn’t normally be caught dead in.

Slipping my camera into my bag, I alter my tourist get-up a bit, losing my scarf and accessories to better blend in on the back streets of Rome. These are the streets I grew up playing on, a cop’s daughter on a government salary. We did okay, but I was always rambunctious, wanting to play soccer with the boys, or do anything outdoors that I could.

Inside the bar I catch a glimpse of the mogul’s wife, walking through the place toward the back door.

I know the area well enough to circle around to the alleyway out back where I see her look around nervously and shake hands with a nicely dressed, older man. A man well known in some circles of business as a shark.

They exchange words, tense and professional.

I manage a quick snap of them, then another as she passes a file folder to him. Just inside the edge of the papers I zoom in on, I can see the corner of her husband’s company logo.

“Porca vacca,” I whisper, snapping a few more shots.

She’s selling insider info!

My mother would throw a fit if she heard me using that language. But most news channels would pay a pretty penny for a story like this. Not mine, but maybe Mario will put me in touch with one of his contacts…

I jot down my notes, the names and locations on my way back to the office, excitement putting a bounce in my step. This could be something, a little boost to get me on the right track to actual reporting.

“Isabella! You get me those photos I asked for?” His tone catches me off guard as I cross the bullpen, souring my high a little.

“Don’t I always?” I brush off Mario’s surly nature and bushy mustached scowl.

I slip into his office, taking a seat across from him as he sits back down.

“I’ll Dropbox the rest for you as soon as I get back to my desk, but here are the roughs.” I slide the photos to him.

“Oh si, cavolo ! This is the good stuff! You’ve got the front page again, Isa. Not only the proof of an affair, but a smooch too? You’re a champion!”

“Thanks, boss, but that’s not all. You’re not going to believe what happened after this.”

He perks up, looking intrigued. “Please tell me they have a third in their relationship! A three-way would practically sell us right off the shelf!”

“Um … no. I followed Mira Petrona.”

“Oh, really?” I’ve got him, he raises an eyebrow, intrigued.

“Yeah, she went to another meeting right after she hooked up with Vitelli.”

“Are you telling me she has another lover? She's sleeping around with two celebrities? Who's the other guy? Is he a famous movie star? Musician?”

“No. It’s even juicier than that. She met with Valdo Anders, from Enco Financial. She's selling insider information to her husband’s rivals. The wife of the CEO!”

Mario's wide-eyed expression goes vacant right before he flaps his lips, sifting through the photos and throwing them right in the trash.

“Nope. No way. Not this crap again.” He shakes his head, scowling. “Isabella, how many times do I have to tell you to stop digging up dirt that doesn't sell papers?”

“It does sell papers. This is groundbreaking stuff. This is headline news.”

“Sorry, I meant our papers. We don't sell headline news, Isabella. We sell shit.”

“Maybe I don't want to sell shit.”

“Too bad. That's what I pay you for. You give me dirt on people. But not this kind of dirt. Give me the juicy stuff. The kissing and fucking in dark corners. Give me topless girls closing the hotel curtains on an affair, get me models having nip slips at the beach.” He crosses his arms and gives me that flat stare I hate.

“Come on, Mario, it wouldn't be that far off base for us to publish this.”

“You know what I'm gonna say. I'm happy to have you around. You take great photos. You do good work, you make deadlines. What you do on your own time is your business. But when you keep spending company time doing this shit, it's hard to justify that to my superiors.”

“Mario, come on! Just look at the pictures. This is insider trading! Collusion or industrial sabotage. Don’t you know the editor of the Corriere della Sera? This could be a front-page story in the actual paper.”

“Oh, so you’re too good for our little enterprise now?”

“Don’t give me that crap Mario. Help me out.”

“No can do, Isa. You gotta quit pushing the envelope here.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying, give me a nasty scoop. I’ll keep the good photos of Mira and Vitelli and pretend the others don’t exist. Now get out of my office and find me some alien abduction wack job or Frank Sinatra's back from the dead type story to put on page four!”

I try not to storm out like a prima donna, but I'm about to explode. I am so sick and tired of this tabloid shithole.

I scoot into the tiny office I share with Galo, one of our writers, cramming myself behind my desk. May as well be a broom closet.

But at least I can close the door and shut everybody out. Half of the bullpen is a bunch of high-strung assholes gossiping and talking as much trash about each other as they do about the celebrities that we take pictures of.

“One of these days I swear I'm gonna find a story that matters. One of these days…”

“Yeah, and maybe I'll become the next Italy's Top Model.” Galo giggles, rolling his eyes as he ticktacks away on his computer.

“They’d be lucky to have you on the catwalk, Galo,” I laugh, worrying over the disaster that is my desk.

“Someone’s a hot mess, today.”

“Shut up, Galo.”

“I swear, you just set yourself up for this shit, little miss Bella. Expectations, expectations. Just give into the gossip and be a media whore like the rest of us!”

“You’re such a bitch, Galo.”

“Says the grumpiest hen in the henhouse,” he pouts.

“You’re welcome to go ‘cluck’ yourself.”

“I’d love to, but I have work to do. That is, if you got the scoop on Vitelli? Give me your notes and hush.”

Galo writes the bulk of my work, the stories I track down. He's the best we have. I don't understand how he cranks out the word count that he does. The articles he writes are actually readable, funny even.

But he wants to be doing this for a living.

“ Ragazza , one of these days you're gonna get fired. Or maybe you should give it up, quit, and try something else before that happens. Pursue your passion.”

“You know it’s not that easy.”

“Isn’t it? Didn’t your uncle leave you some money? Take a year off and get your shit together.”

“I need to break into real journalism to pursue my passion, Galo. Break open a real case about something that matters .”

“Right, because journalism is thriving in the world today. I meant the other passion.”

He's right. Journalism's going right down the toilet.

And he’s right about my real passion, my dreams that seem to have taken a back seat the past few years. I want to help people.

My father was a police officer. My brother was a police officer. I imagined as a little girl that I would make my way into law enforcement. Until losing both of them just about killed my mamma.

So I promised her I wouldn’t go to the academy.

It’s a boys’ club, anyway.

It doesn’t mean that I can’t use my talents and my skills to do something along those lines, however. Papa taught me how to investigate, fostering my interest in mysteries. I was always focused, never letting anything go until I got to the bottom of it. In my studies, at school, with my friends.

They used to call me Detective Isabella.

What I’d really like to be is a private investigator. I am trying to become one.

It’s just that starting my own business is daunting. Overwhelming. That and people don’t trust someone without a resume. I’ve even developed a pretty good rapport with some informants, shady guys that move info on the streets. It’s taking a long time, but it’s helped me keep this job in the meantime.

I'm tapping my pen on the desk when I notice Galo staring at me. His head cocked to the side, that annoyed look in his eyes.

“Sorry.”

“Oh no, don't mind me.” He turns back around. “Oh, yeah, you had a phone call earlier.” He keeps typing, leaving the announcement hanging.

“From … ?”

“I don't know. Some shady sounding motherfucker. He said he had a ‘tip for you.’ I almost laughed, since I know you haven’t had a date in months.”

“Ugh, you’re a pig! Did he tell you what the ‘tip’ was?”

Galo snickers. “Yes. He told me what it was.” Sifting through the notes stuck to his screen, he plucks one off. “Um…found a lead on the guy you were looking for.” I asked him who and he told me to mind my business and tell you that ‘he was spotted.’”

“Spotted where?”

“Like I know? God, you’re such a nag. No wonder you don’t have a man.” He grins, clearly savoring this torture.

“Galo.” I shoot daggers at him. “Give me the damn note.”

He tosses it at me and spins around, slipping up and out the door. “Ugh. I need coffee.”

Found a lead on the guy you were looking for. He was spotted in Spain. Train station. Left a photo at the usual spot. Do not call me again.

A lead.

A real lead on something I’ve been working on in my free time. A project that has left me at dead ends over and over again.

It’s been my mission ever since my brother died.

To find the man who took his life. Alessandro Diamante, an elusive and mysterious criminal and suspected head of one of the most infamous crime families in history.

Twenty minutes and a couple of bus stops later, I have the photo in my hand, a slightly blurry print of a CCTV camera shot. A tall, broad-shouldered man in sunglasses and a long coat. He’s incredibly handsome. And he’s boarding a train.

The only clue.

It lights a fire in my belly, igniting my anger and drive to act.

Galo is right. It’s time for me to make a move. To go for it.

I’m going after Diamante, exposing him for the criminal he is. I’m going to nail that piece of shit to the wall.