ELENA CONTI

The sound of the rain was heavy outside the window of her cramped apartment. Elena Conti, a journalist investigating the mafia's influence in Philadelphia. She sat in front of her computer, the rhythmic sound of her fingers tapping away on the keyboard synchronized with the sound of the rain battering on the window. Her apartment was very disorganized, mirroring the kind of life she lived, a life of chaos, the life of a woman who was always busy digging deep. There was a cup of coffee on the table, leftover biscuits, and dirty notepads. Elena Conti was no ordinary journalist. While other reporters chased stories that could make the headlines for only a day and be forgotten by the morrow, she dug and chased after stories that could get her killed. Stories that were worth telling even after years. Her dark brown eyes behind the thin framed glasses she always wore for her eye problems other than for fashion examined the documents displayed on her desktop monitor, digital breadcrumbs she had painstakingly spent months collecting. Antonio Vincenzo. The name stared at her from the police report buried deep in an encrypted database that was now displayed on her screen. A name she had spent years looking at, a shadow in the Philadelphia underworld that could not be caught. A man who had evaded justice for decades. Up until that night, Antonio Vincenzo has been a name associated with the Alderman's murder of 2003 but with no concrete evidence. But now? Now she had something. Elena leaned back in her chair, running her hand through her chestnut curls and stretching them endlessly. The documents that spread across her desk were about a story of corruption, power, and a political assassination that had shaped the city's history. The Alderman's Murder. 2003. The official information released was that it was a robbery gone wrong. But in truth and unofficially, It had been a hit. And the man who ordered the hit? Antonio Vincenzo. Luca's father. Elena sat still. She had spent years chasing whispers and stories not ever told loud enough, she followed the faintest trails of corruption, but this one was proof of something tangible. On the screen was a scanned copy of an old ledger, smuggled out by an informant who is now dead. This scanned document listed payments to a known hitman who was suspected of working for the Vincenzo family. The date of the payment as indicated on the ledger was three days before Christopher Alderman, the then governor of Philadelphia was gunned down in his own driveway. 'Finally, I got you," she whispered, a fierce smile tugging at her lips. The hitman who had received the payment was Marcelo Bianchi, popularly known as The Silence. He was rumored to have gotten the nickname from his policy of leaving no witnesses. He was said to believe in making everyone who saw permanently silent. Marcelo was arrested about five years ago in Los Angeles after a mission went wrong where he got shot by the target he went to kill. He was incarcerated in Twin Towers correctional facility in Los Angeles, the same penitentiary where Dushanbe Kazakov, the ghost, was being held. 'Maybe I can go to him, he's been in prison for so long. Perhaps he would want to tell me something." She thought to herself. The next day, she was already on her way to Los Angeles. She was going to see Marcelo, as she thought she could get something out of him. ******* The air inside the prison visitation room was thick with the scent of antiseptic and stale coffee. Elena Conti sat stiffly in the hard plastic chair, her fingers drumming against the manila folder in her lap. She had pulled strings, cashed in favors, lied to editors, and even flirted with a corrections officer to secure this meeting. A door buzzed open. Two guards escorted in a lean man with silver-streaked hair and hollow cheekbones. Marcelo 'The Silence" Bianchi unrecognizable. He moved with so much quietness and the precision of a predator, his dark eyes ran through the room before settling on Elena. A scar ran from his temple to his jaw, an injury he had gotten from the failed hit that landed him there. He sat across from her, his cuffed hands resting on the table. Elena leaned forward 'Mr. Bianchi," she began. 'Thank you for agreeing to see me." Marcelo said nothing. His gaze turned to the guards, then back to her. She opened the folder and pulled a grainy photo of Antonio Vincenzo and examined it before sliding it across the table to him. 'Do you know this man?" Marcelo's jaw twitched, but he remained put. 'I have a ledger entry. A payment from him to you, dated three days before Christopher Alderman was murdered." Elena said, trying to be persuasive with hopes that he would eventually speak. Marcelo's fingers folded slightly. 'You're digging in the wrong graves, girl." His voice was a rasp and seemed unused for years. Elena's eyes narrowed. 'Alright. Now let me be clear with you, I think you pulled the trigger. I think you killed Alderman, and I think Antonio gave the order." She said as her lips curved into a smirk. A slow, chilling smile spread across Marcelo's face. Elena saw that he was unmoved by her revelation, so she decided to try another way. 'You're dying," she began as she pulled the medical report she'd bribed a nurse for. 'Pancreatic cancer. Six months, max. What do you have to lose?" She paused and observed him. Marcelo's smirk had faded. For the first time, his mask slipped just for a second. 'Please tell me the truth. Let the world know what Antonio did." She pressed still further. Marcelo leaned in, his breath hot against the plexiglass. 'Fine, you want a confession right? Okay. Here goes nothing, Antonio wanted Alderman dead and he paid me to do it. Elena's blood ran cold. She was shocked that he spoke those words, short but a weapon of mass destruction. Marcelo's smile returned, 'this story is not worth dying for girl, Alderman was worse than the devil. I would say, good riddance." The guards approached, signaling time was up. 'Can I get extra 5 minutes please, I need him to say this over a recorder?" Elena pleaded with the guards.