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Anger boils within me, threatening to spill over. How can Frank dismiss the truth so easily?
Doesn't he understand the importance of exposing the dark face that festers beneath this city's surface? I take a deep breath, forcing myself to remain calm. I can't let my emotions get the best of me.
As I continue to pace, my mind races through the events of that night. The way Tommaso's men mercilessly beat the owner of the restaurant, their fists raining down on him without mercy. The fear in his eyes as he pleaded for mercy, his words falling on deaf ears.
I shiver. I refuse to let Frank’s rejection stop me. If my publisher won't acknowledge the truth, then I'll find someone who will. I look at the screen again and start researching other tabloids and newspapers that might be interested in the story.
One by one, I compile a list of potential outlets to submit my article to. Carefully crafting individualized emails, I attach the video footage along with my written account of that night's events. I make sure to emphasize the urgency and importance of exposing the person responsible.
My heart skips a beat each time I hit the send button.
Minutes turn into hours as I wait for responses, anxiously watching my screen for any incoming notifications. But with each passing moment, disappointment replaces hope as rejections flood into my inbox. My fingers tremble as I read through the responses of the LA Times, Youlin and Burdett.
Damn it.
Doubt creeps in, whispering that maybe my article isn't good enough, that I've failed to capture the gravity of the situation. But deep down, I know it's not about the quality of my work.
It’s about him.
I know there's something more at play. Could it be possible that these publications are rejecting my articles out of fear? Fear of crossing paths with Tommaso and facing his wrath? Like Mr. Smith? The thought gnaws at me, filling me with a mixture of anger and frustration. How can they prioritize the standing of their press houses over the truth? How can they turn a blind eye to the suffering I witnessed firsthand? I pace around my room, unable to shake off the distress.
The next morning, I sit at the breakfast table with Reed. I look at the scrambled eggs and frown. I have no appetite after the sleepless and sickening night I had. I find it difficult to eat but manage a cup of vanilla yogurt as Reed eyes me. I have recently been surviving on a newfound tolerance for Lattes and Diet Coke, anyway. So it’s not much of a surprise to him.
My hands fidget with the edge of my coffee cup, but I can't bring myself to take a sip. The mere thought of food makes my stomach churn in protest. He gives me a concerned look and I straighten up. I must look awful.
My attention drifts, my gaze unfocused, as if I'm staring into a void. The sound of his voice becomes distant, drowned out by the weight of my weariness.
Reed breaks through the haze, pulling me back. "Ella, are you okay?" he asks gently, concern etched across his face.
I blink, my eyes struggling to adjust to the brightness of the room. "Yeah." I manage to mumble, my voice weak and hoarse.
He gives me a funny look. “You look like you haven't slept at all. What happened?”
I exhale a shaky breath. "Just nightmares," I mumble. "I keep waking up."
“About what?” I wish I could tell him. Tell him what, who, had haunted me all night.
Reed smiles at me when I don’t respond. "Go easy on yourself, Ella. You have been so engrossed in work for the past week. It’s getting to your head." I wish. I smile at him and look at the clock. Shit.
I suddenly remember that I didn’t check my inbox in the morning for the responses from the remaining tabloids. I dash to my room and immediately open my laptop. There is one unread email, sitting at the top of the list, from my publisher, with another subject line labeled ‘Urgent’
My heart skips a beat as I click on it, devouring every word.
Ella,
Come into the office immediately.
It's urgent.
My mind races with questions. This could be good news or another storm waiting to hit. Is it about my article? Did the editor-in-chief change his mind? Or is this the moment Frank hands me a pink slip?
Chapter Nine
TOMMASO
Ithought that Mauro messing with the territories was rock bottom. But maybe I was wrong. I think this might be my rock bottom.
I'm on my bed, where I've been since last night, except I gave up trying to sleep. Now that the sun's about to come up, I don't see the point. I look at my reflection for the fiftieth time. I close my eyes as Ella’s labels echo in my mind again.
