Page 7 of Deception

Which is another problem altogether. I’m stuck in a dying medium. One I fell in love with when I was younger, thinking I could be a real journalist—a reporter, traveling the world.

The only real truth I’ve uncovered so far is that the average movie star likes to cheat on their spouse. That and the fact that my dream was a little misguided.

And the truth shall…set you up for disappointment.

At my core, though, I am a sleuth. And I am so very passionate about my work, any work I set my mind to. I love to uncover the hidden facts, hunt down leads, and solve mysteries.

Which is why I almost became a cop like my brother and my father.

“There you are, Arturo…who were you visiting at such a fancy hotel in the middle of the day?”

I snap a few photos, catching him looking around, checking to see if he’s recognized in his hat and sunglasses.Nothing to see, Vitelli. Your secret’s safe with me.Not Mario, though. My boss is going to roast you on the front page.

Especially if he was hooking up with who I think he was.

Only a moment later, a woman exits the building in much the same way, almost laughably goose-necking, a nervous tension to her pose. She spots him and hustles down the street in her high heels to catch him a block later, pulling him into an alley, pushing him up against the wall, and kissing him.

No one notices the woman standing across the street, just a tourist, snapping shots of the architecture. I zoom in, catching him smiling, laughing, and protesting her being so bold in public.

Her identity isn’t exactly important to the scoop, but I am curious. Her scarf, glasses, and her hand blocking the sun's rays have kept me from getting a good look.

All that aside, what is most important is that Arturo Vitelli, a world-famous soccer player slated to be heading to the World Cup in a few weeks, is running around on his pregnant wife.

It makes me feel like just as much of a sleazebag for hunting him down for juicy gossip.

She drops her hand, letting him pull off her glasses, and I almost gasp.

Her name isn’t particularly important, herlastname is.

Mira Petrona.

Her husband owns half the banks in the country. And he is rumored to be highly influential in parliament. As in, he is best friends with our prime minister.

His young trophy wife is clearly interested in more than just politics. She’s also flaunting herself out here for anyone to see, for the papers to snap a photo.

My investigative brain goes wild, wondering if she’s doing it on purpose or out of blind passion. I’ve found that most people are either calculating, hyper-aware of how their actions might be seen, or they’re oblivious—so self-centered that they don’t think it matters.

Either way, she’ll be in the news for this in no time.

Spilling the story first will get me a bonus. More papers sold and more site subs means I get to keep my job too.

They split up after another long, sloppy kiss, all caught on my DSLR.

“Where are you headed, Mira?” I mutter, losing interest in Vitelli. He’s no use to me without a secret lover. But she’s tied to even more interesting people, bigger fish with bigger dirt.

She’s clearly up to something, so I follow, keeping enough distance to stay out of sight. Mira stays oblivious, however, clearly engrossed in her own thoughts and where she’s headed.

Three blocks along, I start to doubt that this tail will turn up anything until she turns into a bar—a seedy-looking place that has seen better days. And the type of place she wouldn’t normally be caught dead in.

Slipping my camera into my bag, I alter my tourist get-up a bit, losing my scarf and accessories to better blend in on the back streets of Rome. These are the streets I grew up playing on, a cop’s daughter on a government salary. We did okay, but I was always rambunctious, wanting to play soccer with the boys, or do anything outdoors that I could.

Inside the bar I catch a glimpse of the mogul’s wife, walking through the place toward the back door.

I know the area well enough to circle around to the alleyway out back where I see her look around nervously and shake hands with a nicely dressed, older man. A man well known in some circles of business as a shark.

They exchange words, tense and professional.

I manage a quick snap of them, then another as she passes a file folder to him. Just inside the edge of the papers I zoom in on, I can see the corner of her husband’s company logo.

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