Chapter 4
944 Words
The rain came again, relentless and gray the kind that blurred London’s skyline into watercolor streaks. Ava Morel didn’t mind the weather, it made following people easier. Everyone moved faster, heads down, faces hidden.
She sat in a parked taxi across from a luxury restaurant in Mayfair, her notebook open on her lap and her recorder tucked beneath her scarf. Her target: Marco Santini Luca DeLuca’s right hand man.
He had arrived ten minutes ago in a black car, exchanged brief greetings with security, and walked inside with a woman who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. The restaurant was expensive, private, and discreet the kind of place where deals weren’t discussed, they were decided.
Ava checked her watch. Two hours of waiting wouldn’t kill her. She was used to it. Journalism had taught her patience, and stubbornness was her superpower.
When the door finally opened, Marco stepped out, his coat draped over one arm, phone pressed to his ear. His expression was calm too calm. The kind that said this conversation isn’t meant for witnesses.
Ava quietly slipped out of the cab, blending into the small crowd on the opposite pavement. Her camera was small, silent. She snapped two quick photos, zooming in on the license plate of the car that came to pick him up.
A black Bentley. Unmarked. But she’d seen it before parked outside DeLuca Tower the night of the gala.
Her pulse kicked.
Marco spoke briefly to the driver, then climbed in. The car rolled into traffic. Ava flagged down another cab, her voice low but steady. “Follow that Bentley. Keep your distance.”
The driver gave her a suspicious glance through the mirror but obeyed.
They drove for nearly twenty minutes, weaving through the city, until the Bentley stopped near the river a quiet dockyard area lined with warehouses. The kind of place people didn’t visit after dark unless they had something to hide.
Ava’s instincts screamed again.
She told the driver to stop. “Wait here. I’ll be five minutes.”
“Miss, this isn’t a good area”
“Five minutes,” she repeated firmly, slipping a tip into his hand before stepping into the rain.
Her heels clicked against the wet pavement as she ducked behind a stack of crates. From her hiding spot, she watched Marco enter a building marked only with a faded sign, St. James Imports Ltd.
She jotted the name down. Imports. A perfect cover for money laundering, weapons, or worse.
The rain fell harder now, cold and stinging, but Ava barely noticed. She crept closer, her recorder tucked in her palm. A small window gave her a narrow view inside.
Two men stood near a table, their conversation muffled but tense. Marco was one of them. The other was a stranger older, sharp featured, with the kind of presence that made her skin crawl.
She couldn’t make out every word, but she caught enough:
“Shipment arrives tomorrow.”
“No delays this time.”
“Tell him I want double for the risk.”
Then silence. Both men turned sharply toward the window. Ava froze.
A shadow moved near the entrance. Footsteps echoed. She slipped back quickly, heart pounding.
Her phone buzzed. She silenced it, ducking behind the crates again. Rainwater dripped down her neck, her breath shallow.
For a long moment, she waited. Then a door slammed shut, an engine started, and tires splashed through puddles as the cars drove away.
Ava exhaled slowly. She didn’t know what kind of shipment they were talking about, but it wasn’t legal.
She had just found the first real crack in DeLuca Holdings’ spotless image.
By the time she got back to her apartment, she was drenched and trembling, but her eyes gleamed with determination. She uploaded the photos, saved the audio, and started cross referencing names.
Her screen filled with records, old company registrations, offshore accounts, and names that had been changed or deleted. The deeper she looked, the more she realized DeLuca Holdings wasn’t just one company it was a network, a spiderweb stretching across cities and countries.
At the center of it all, Luca DeLuca.
And now she had proof that something illegal was happening under his name.
Ava leaned back, breathless but exhilarated. She had spent years chasing stories that went cold before they turned hot. But this one burned.
Still, she couldn’t ignore the unease curling in her chest. Someone had already warned her once. If they knew she’d been at the docks tonight, there wouldn’t be a second warning.
Her phone buzzed again.
This time, it wasn’t a message. It was a call.
Unknown number.
She hesitated, then answered. “Hello?”
Silence.
She frowned. “Who is this?”
And then a low male voice said, “You really don’t listen, do you, Miss Morel?”
Her blood ran cold.
“Who is this?” she demanded, though she already knew.
The voice chuckled, soft but unmistakable. “You’ve been following the wrong man. That’s dangerous.”
Her grip tightened on the phone. “You think threats scare me?”
“I think you don’t understand the game you’re playing,” the voice replied. “Walk away. Before the truth costs you more than your career.”
Click.
The line went dead.
Ava stared at the phone, her pulse hammering. It was him Luca DeLuca.
He knew.
That night, she couldn’t sleep. Every sound outside her apartment made her flinch. But fear only sharpened her focus.
If he thought a warning would stop her, he didn’t know her at all.
Ava Morel wasn’t walking away.
She was walking straight into the storm.
- Writer
