He advances another step. “That’s rich, coming from you, after I just heard that name, the one name we never talk about, the one name we can’t discuss, because we literally made an agreement not to, on a recording that you’re carrying. The woman who loves to splash gossip and information that she shouldn’t be sharing all over the fucking internet is delving places she shouldn’t go. So, how dare you, Raven Perry? Stop lying to me and tell me what the fuck is going on.”
His anger permeates the air between us, thick and heavy like the chorded muscles of his neck and forearms.
He is pissed.
And maybe he has a right to be.
I draw in a shaky breath and release it.
Fuck.
I had hoped I would have more time. That maybe the story would be mostly completed by the time I finally had to speak to Connor about it, to get his side of what happened on the homestead and any information he can provide about the men he took out or what might have been said by any of them. But I guess the cat’s out of the bag at this point.
Running my hands through my unruly hair, I release a heavy sigh. “I’m working on a story…”
One of his dark eyebrows rises slowly. “What kind of story?”
The kind that’s going to blow everything up.
“About the Lorells.”
His eyes widen. “Are you fucking joking? We have an agreement with them, and with the FBI, that you would not publish anything, that we would not publicly discuss what happened on the mountain or the bank robbery, and that, in return, they would leave us and Lucky alone.”
“I know.”
He throws out a hand toward my bag on the couch. “Then why the fuck are you writing a story about them?”
It isn’t that I haven’t asked myself that very question dozens of times. But each time I do, only one answer arises in my mind and in my heart—because I have to.
I pace my small living room, shoving my hands back through my hair as I try to figure out how to explain it to him. “I know you won’t understand, but I don’t trust them. Not one fucking bit. I don’t believe for a second that we’re really safe up here, do you?”
His jaw tenses, but he doesn’t respond.
He doesn’t have to for me to know that he feels the same as I do.
“This ‘agreement’ that we made with them?” I shake my head. “It doesn’t mean shit. It doesn’t stop them from coming after us again, does it?”
It’s more of a rhetorical question, since we all know it’s true.
“I’ve spent months since Lucky first revealed the truth to us about what she was running from looking into them. Researching everything I could find about the crime family—their inner workings, who the players are, what they have their hands in—searching for any way that we might be able to take them down.”
“Take them down?” He throws his hands up and shakes his head. “What the fuck are you even talking about? The FBI said they don’t have enough to prosecute them.”
“Yet.” I hold up a finger. “They don’t have enough yet.”
He scoffs. “And what, you think you can find something that’s going to make a difference that the FBI didn’t? They’ve been investigating them for decades.”
“I know, but I have sources.”
His back stiffens. “What do you mean?”
“I’ve spoken to several people who have never talked to the FBI, who have never revealed the information that they gave me to anyone else. And I truly think it can make a difference.”
“So direct them to the fucking FBI!”
I shake my head. “They won’t talk to them. They don’t trust law enforcement. And I don’t blame them, considering what I’ve found.”
“Which is what?”
