I believed her. I promised her I wouldn’t give anyone her name.
While she showered, I opened the box. It was a treasure trove, filled with all the reasons the Bellante family would want us both dead. Ledgers with neat rows outlining bribes to politicians and zoning boards. Offshore account records. Confidential blueprints.
When she got out of the shower, she fucked me again, her fingers slow and deep. Made me promise again that I’d never reveal my source. Kissed me like I meant something to her, then strapped on the silver-plated sidearm she always wore under her jacket and stepped to the door.
“I would not be doing this if she were still here.”
I didn’t ask who. It could only be Isabella.
I didn’t hear from her again. I put all of my energy into threading the new evidence in with what I had, and it fit perfectly.
Three weeks before my exposé on the Bellante family was scheduled to publish, I was sitting at my desk in the early evening when my phone rang. I did not recognize the number, but the identifier made me sit up straighter. State Attorney’s Office. The words on my laptop monitor blurred for a second. I picked up on the third ring with my name and title, and the voice on the other end introduced herself with the kind of precision that cut straight through me.
“Ms. Barrett. We need to talk.”
Mark had called her. He was concerned that my story would be dangerous for me, and that part was probably true. I was certain my safety would be assured simply because I was going so big and public. It’s not like they were going to murder the woman screaming on a megaphone that these guys are known murderers, right?
In hindsight, I should have known better. The State's Attorney didn’t share my optimistic point of view, and neither did the Mayor. Of course, his name was in the ledgers too.
They wanted my source. I refused. They threatened to bury the newspaper in red tape, citing that no sources could be verified. I reminded them that I was under no obligation to provide my sources under federal law. The pair of them came down to the North Coast Globe with three men in pin-striped suits to issue more carefully-worded threats.
When I left for work that afternoon, I saw her. Dom. Across the street at a cafe table, and I’d have missed her if she hadn’t been staring so hard that I could feel it. I tipped my head in a nod. She didn’t move a muscle.
I went home and remembered all the ways she’d touched my body, and wished I’d never muddied the waters by letting her.
For a short time, I wished I’d never taken the bank box, so I could still be with her.
The story went live this morning, three days into the new year. Mark stood by me, though I know he was terrified for us both. He asked me if there was anyway my source could be tracked back to me or the paper. Did the person ever come to my house? Were we ever seen together in public? Finally, he narrowed his eyes and asked his real question.
“You didn’t bang this person, did you, Sabine?”
I scoffed, picturing Dom sitting across the street, watching me.
“Fuck no, Mark. You never fuck your source. That’s rule number one.”
2
Sabine
My copy of thenewspaper was still warm and carried the faint sharpness of ink. My headline cut across the front page of the North Coast Globe in black, bold letters:
BELLANTE EMPIRE: LUXURY FRONT FOR ORGANIZED CRIME?
My name, Sabine Barrett, sat right beneath it, next to my rectangular portrait. I hated that picture. I tapped my pen against the paper, marking a rhythm I didn’t notice until Mark spoke.
“I can’t decide if you’re brave or fucking insane. Sabine. You’re trending.”
“I’m what?” I asked, looking up.
“Trending. Online. Everywhere. Hashtags with your name. And… their name.” He tilted his chin toward the headline before moving on.
My phone screen glowed, illuminating dozens of notifications and text messages. I thumbed through them quickly. Congratulations mingled with warnings… nothing urgent. A few of them made my jaw tighten, but I ignored them, swiping up to dismiss the notifications.
The story had been worth every late night, every dead end, every door slammed in my face.
“Not brave or insane, Mark. Committed to the truth. Sick of the corruption and bullshit. Rich people getting richer on the backs of the poor.”
“So you’re Robin Hood now, is that it?” He raised one bushy eyebrow so high that it nearly disappeared into his shaggy gray hair. “You ready for Prince John to send the Sheriff of Nottingham to knock on your door?”
