Milan — Three days later
Luca returned to Milan with Lanza's box on the passenger seat. He didn't dare leave it at home. It wasn't just paper — it was dynamite. And he needed someone with memory, context, and the guts to light the fuse with him.
One name came quickly: Vera Colli.
Investigative journalist. Former colleague at La Stampa. She'd been thrown out for poking too close to powerful circles — just like Luca. But Vera never stopped. She published under fake names, leaked files to Rome, and lived in a tiny Brera apartment where even postmen avoided knocking twice.
He arrived at her door at 9 PM. Knocked twice, then once more — their old newsroom signal.
She answered with a cigarette in her hand and suspicion in her eyes.
"Ferretti. I thought you were dead."
"Not yet. But I hear I'm on the way."
She stepped aside. The apartment was a maze of books, maps, folders — and silence.
Luca placed the box on the table.
"I need you to tell me what this really means."
Vera lifted the lid, touched the papers like they were the corpse of a truth long buried.
"Lanza gave you this?"
"He did."
"Then you're lucky you're still breathing."
For hours, she read in silence. Circled names. Underlined connections. Occasionally muttered curses.
"This isn't just about racing," she said finally. "It's political. There's a Supreme Court judge here. Northern industrialists. Even a colonel from the army. They used the races as cover — dirty money, betting, laundering."
Luca nodded.
"And Alessio?"
Vera exhaled deeply.
"He wasn't just talented. He was going to speak. Was keeping a journal. It vanished the day he died."
Luca felt cold crawl up his spine.
"Do you think there's still time to bring this down?"
"There is. But you'll have to scream. And bleed."
They stared at each other.
For the first time, Luca didn't just see danger. He saw possibility.
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If you want to see Luca and Vera unravel the network behind Alessio's death, drop a Power Stone to show that the truth deserves allies.
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