Milan — The night before publication
The streets were wet. A thin drizzle turned the asphalt into a shattered mirror.
Luca and Vera walked quickly through the old center of Milan, clothes clinging to their skin, eyes scanning every reflection in the windows. Since leaving Il Messaggero, they had felt it. It wasn't paranoia. It was survival: footsteps behind them, cars slowing at corners, shadows appearing and disappearing.
"They're following us," Vera murmured without turning her head.
"Since the newsroom," Luca replied.
They both knew what it meant: someone inside the paper had tipped them off.
They turned down a narrow alley between buildings. Luca pulled Vera under the shelter of a worn awning.
Across the street, two men stood still. Pretending to chat. One smoked lazily. The other just watched.
"We can't go home," Vera whispered.
"Or back to the newspaper," Luca agreed.
They had only a single typewritten copy of the article, folded and tucked beneath Vera's blouse, and a folder containing the dossier of evidence hidden in Luca's satchel.
"We need to publish it from somewhere else," Vera said.
"I know a print shop in Como. Small. Trustworthy."
Vera nodded.
"Then let's move. Now."
But after just a few steps, they heard it:
Clicks.
An engine sputtering to life. Then the screech of tires against wet stone.
Luca didn't hesitate. He grabbed Vera's hand. They ran.
The alley was too narrow for cars but perfect for motorcycles. Behind them, the roar of an engine grew louder, closer.
"Left!" Vera shouted.
Luca pivoted sharply, slipping on the wet ground, barely catching himself.
The motorcycle roared past the alley mouth, unable to turn sharply enough.
They kept running.
Milan was closing in on them.
The clock was ticking.
And every second could be their last.
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