“You’re ridiculous, Mark.” I needed coffee and something for my headache, not a lecture. “It’s not a Disney movie… there are no wolves coming to cart me off to jail.”
“You’re right about that, Sabine. The wolves are coming to kill you.” I shook my head at him, skirting around him to head for the coffee maker. “I’m serious. I called a security team for you.”
“You did what? Why? Jesus, Mark!” It was going to take more than two Tylenol and a hot cup of bad coffee to ease my annoyance.
“It’s not negotiable. You have poked the scariest nest of hornets on the East Coast, and I have no interest in attending your funeral.” He turned to go back to his corner office, calling back over his shoulder. “They’ll be here within the hour.”
I dropped into my chair, the cushion sighing under my weight, and flattened the paper on my desk with the heel of my hand. My fingertips left faint smudges on the margins.
I reached for my mug, the rim chipped on one side, and sipped lukewarm coffee while my eyes skimmed the text I already knew by heart. The words laid it out in plain language: internal ledgers showing millions moved through shell companies. Memos approving “special access” for men with criminal records.
The photographs in the spread were even better: glossy shots of Matteo Bellante shaking hands with the mayor at a ribbon-cutting, posed beside his eldest son at a charity gala, both of them smiling like the city’s favorite power family.
I set the paper aside, my pulse thudding in my ears. My laptop screen glowed with an avalanche of notifications: journalists asking for quotes, strangers applauding me, a few calling me a liar. I typed a brief response to a national outlet: “I stand by my reporting. I have no further comment at this time.” I closed the lid with more force than necessary.
The office felt hotter than it had a moment ago. I pushed my sleeves up to my elbows and leaned back, listening to the shuffle of reporters moving through the narrow aisles. A delivery cart squeaked past, the scent of fresh bagels trailing after it. I wasn’t hungry.
A murmur rolled through the newsroom. I glanced toward the cluster of desks near the television. The morning news was playing, one of those panel segments where they fill time by arguing over headlines. Everyone’s face turned toward the screen. Someone turned the volume up a notch too loud.
Matteo Bellante’s face filled the screen. He stood at a podium, flanked by a banner for a children’s cancer fundraiser. His silver hair was neat, his suit crisp. He smiled as he denied every word I’d written. The split screen showed the photo of his youngest son Rocco at a gala, shaking hands with the mayor.
The host cut to a political analyst, a man who waved his hands and called my story “dangerous” without citing a single error. The next guest defended the piece, pointing out the financial documents I’d made public. Their voices rose over each other until the segment cut to commercial.
The newsroom noise swelled again. Phones, keyboards, voices overlapping. All the normal sounds were there, but under it I could hear my own pulse.
I straightened the papers on my desk. I had done my job and told the truth. That was supposed to be the hard part.
A shadow moved across my desk. I looked up to see Zach from city desk, his cheeks flushed from hurrying.
“You might want to come downstairs,” he said.
“What is it?”
He hesitated. “It’s your car.”
The tone in his voice sent me reaching for my coat. I was halfway across the bullpen when Mark flew out of his office. “Absolutely not, Sabine. You’re not going outside.”
“Something’s up with my car, Mark! I’m going to see what’s up.”
“No. You’re not,” he said, walking to the plate glass windows lining the office. He gestured over his shoulder. “Look at this shit!”
Red and blue lights flashed from the wall of police cars and firetrucks blocking the street.
“What the fuck?!”
“Your car, Sabine. Someone set it on fire. The whole damn garage is closed down. No one in or out.” Mark’s eyes cut sideways at me, worry etched across his forehead. “You see why I called in security?”
“They had bomb-sniffing dogs down there and everything!” Miranda sounded positively excited about the fact that my car had been targeted in the underground parking garage. “I had to park on the street and walk in.”
I turned back to my desk. My phone was vibrating against the wood. A new email notification slid across the screen.
The sender field was blank. No subject line. My stomach tightened before I even clicked.
Three short sentences filled the screen:
"Nice story. Shame if something happened to you. Stop."
I’d had threats before—blustery, full of noise. This one had no noise at all, and that was worse. No handle. No emoji bravado. Just three clipped sentences, the kind you don’t send unless you mean them.
