Worth it

Rain slicked the alley outside club Vesper, turning the neon signs into rivers of pink and blue. Aria Cole pulled her hood tighter and checked the time on her phone, 11:58 p.m. Two minutes to midnight

The tip had been maddenly vague:Valente's people meet on Thursdays. Black entrance. Midnight. Vague, but enough to drag her across the city on a night when any sane person would be asleep.

She shifted her weight, the camera strap biting into her shoulder. Months of chasing this story had taught her patience. It had also taught her how quickly patience could turn to obsession

Back when she was a junior reporter at the Tribune, Aria thought the political beat would be her ticket to the big leagues. She’d dug through campaign finances, city contracts, all the usual paper trails. It was during one of those routine dives, tracing a suspicious development grant, that the name Dominic Valente had first surfaced.

At first, it was nothing more than whispers in financial records and redacted memos: a holding company here, a sudden cash infusion there. Then came the anonymous call from a city accountant who swore a “businessman” was laundering millions through real estate

By the time she pitched the story to her editor, she’d already lost sleep connecting dots no one wanted connected. The Tribune killed the piece, too risky, too thin, not worth the lawsuit. Two weeks later Aria resigned, trading the comfort of a steady paycheck for the freedom to chase a story no one else would touch.

Freelance life hadn’t been glamorous. She’d written travel blurbs, restaurant reviews, anything to pay rent while she dug deeper. Each new lead circled back to the same name. Dominic Valente.

And now, after months of cold trails and false sightings, here she was, alone in a rain-soaked alley, hoping tonight would finally prove he existed outside rumors.

Through the side door’s narrow window, the club pulsed with sound. The air smelled of damp concrete and cigarette smoke even from here.

A black sedan rolled to the curb. Tinted windows. The engine is low and smooth. Two men stepped out first. Broad-shouldered, scanning the street with professional precision. Then a third figure emerged.

Tall. Dark suit, no tie. The streetlight caught the sharp line of his profile: deliberate, controlled. Even from this distance, command seemed to trail him like a shadow.

Aria’s breath caught.

Dominic Valente.

She raised the camera, heart hammering. One frame. Another. The shutter sounded too loud against the rain.

He didn’t glance toward the alley. Didn’t need to. With a brief nod to his men, he disappeared through the club’s unmarked door.

Aria exhaled slowly, forcing her pulse to steady. Months of research, endless dead ends, and now the man himself, ten yards away.

Proof at last. But proof was only the beginning.

She slid the camera into her bag and turned to leave. The alley was empty again, but the air felt heavier. A door slammed somewhere down the block, sharp against the muffled bass of the club.

For the first time that night, Aria wasn’t sure if she was the one doing the watching, or if someone else was already watching her. Faint scrape echoed behind the dumpsters, metal on wet brick, so soft she almost convinced herself it was the rain. She froze, breath shallow, the hood of her jacket dripping against her cheek. Nothing moved. Only the neon glow bleeding across the slick pavement and the deep, relentless throb of bass from the club.

She forced a quiet inhale, fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. One slow step backward, then another. The alley stretched ahead like a tunnel, the city beyond it muffled and strange.

Aria quickened her pace. She told herself she was imagining things, but the weight of unseen eyes followed her all the way to the street.