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“You mentioned you had information.”

Adriana leaned forward.

“You investigated women who disappeared from two migrant shelters three years ago.”

Lucia’s fingers tightened around the porcelain.

“That story was never published.”

“You traced them to a transport company connected to the San Michele Relief Foundation,” Adriana continued. “A Catholic charity operating out of Rome.”

Lucia looked at me. “Where did you hear that?”

The waiter approached. Lucia flinched when he stopped beside us. “Coffee?” he asked me.

“No.”

His attention moved to Adriana. She shook her head. The waiter left, and Lucia waited until he had reached the counter before speaking.

“You shouldn't have come.”

“You agreed to the meeting,” I reminded her.

“I changed my mind.”

“Why?”

Her gaze flicked toward the front window. I followed the movement without turning my head. A man stood across the street beneath a dark awning, apparently reading something on his phone. He hadn’t been there when we entered.

“Were you followed here?” I asked.

“No.” The lie came too quickly.

“Did someone threaten you?” Adriana asked her.

Lucia stared into her coffee. “That article cost me everything.”

“But you still work for the newspaper.”

“They removed me from investigations and moved me to culture.”

“After someone paid your editor to make your story disappear?”

Lucia’s head snapped up.

“You have no idea what you’ve stepped into.”

Adriana’s voice remained low, but the anger beneath it drew Lucia’s attention back to her. “My father’s name is in the files,” she said. “Gabriele Serra. Did you know him?”

Recognition crossed Lucia’s face, then vanished almost immediately.

“You knew him,” Adriana whispered.

“No.”

Lucia reached for the handbag beside her chair. I placed my hand over it before she could lift it. Her face drained of color.

“Don't,” I said.