Como — Freezing early morning
The first copy rolled off the press like a trapped scream.
Marcello lifted the still-wet sheet, his eyes hard as he read.
The headline slashed across the page like a knife:
"Corruption, Racing, and Silence: The Dirty Machine of Italian Motorsport"
Luca grabbed the first dozen prints. Vera tucked folded copies inside her overcoat. There was no time for perfect strategy — only for action.
They moved through the alleys of Como, dropping copies discreetly.
At bakeries just opening their doors.
In taxis abandoned in empty squares.
On forgotten café tables.
Into the pockets of men who pretended not to see — but grabbed them anyway.
Each paper left behind was a planted seed.
The sky was beginning to lighten in the east when they saw it:
In the cracked glass of a black-market newsstand, among torn posters of American movies and pulp novels, someone had pinned a copy.
Exposed.
Luca stopped. Vera did too.
The headline gleamed in the wet glass like a scar.
They said nothing.
They didn't need to.
The echo had begun.
But before they could move away, Luca's stomach dropped.
Two men in dark coats turned the corner, walking straight toward them.
And they weren't carrying newspapers.
They were carrying guns.
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