Under Their Guard (House of Bellante #1)

Chapter 1

Sabine

Rule number one: never fuck your source.

They drill it into you from day one of journalism school.

You blur the lines, you lose the story.

Take your source to bed, wake up with no story—or worse, no job.

I knew better, but when did that ever stop anyone?

Ten weeks in, I was elbow deep in research for the story that seemed to be an open secret in this town. Everyone knew something, and most couldn’t wait to spill rumors about the Bellante family’s criminal enterprise.

Oh, excuse me, I mean legitimate real estate business. Six of one, half a dozen of the other.

In any case, not one person would go on the record.

Matteo Bellante built luxury empires up and down the East Coast. Hotels, marinas, casinos. The papers called him a philanthropist. I’d heard about the other version of him, the one with bodies under the concrete and politicians in his pocket.

He was dirty as fuck. The whole family was.

I’d chased a hundred leads, stretched lines of thread across pins, tried to connect all the dots. It had been going on for decades in plain sight. Some of it was likely hearsay, but even if it was all true, it didn’t matter.

The evidence wasn’t there.

I was following breadcrumbs through an arson/accidental death investigation that locals thought was tied to the Bellantes when I met her. I’d stopped in at a diner for a bite and a coffee. Asked the cook a couple questions about the dead man.

The woman slid onto the stool next to me. Dark hair. A silver streak at the temple… very sexy, if I’m honest. All-black pants suit. I thought she looked like trouble.

I had no idea how right I was.

I tried to concentrate on my French onion soup, but she propped one elbow on the counter and turned toward me. I nodded. She smiled. Introduced herself, said she’d heard I had questions about the Bellantes and she might have a few answers.

She did have answers. Every answer, in fact.

All I had was a first name. “Call me Dom,” she’d said.

We met once a week at a warehouse near my loft, and every single time I was sure I’d be the next missing person report filed.

I told my editor Mark I was meeting a source on the Bellante family, so at least the police would have somewhere to start looking for my body.

Mark hated how obsessed I was with the story.

I hated how obsessed I was with meeting Dom every week.

Her voice sounded like music and she told stories, each more twisted and gruesome than the last. She implicated herself again and again. I wondered if she was telling the truth or playing out an elaborate cosplay of a Mafia family member.

It didn’t stop me from sleeping with her. She was charming. Gorgeous. The first time was in the warehouse, bent over a shipping crate stamped with the name Bellante. I came like a fountain, barely able to catch my breath.

After that, we started meeting at a nearby hotel. Not a great one, mind you, but not the worst either. It had a bed, a shower, and a bathroom counter, and we made liberal use of all three. I had almost forgotten my story. Almost.

Then Isabella Bellante was killed. She was the wife of Matteo Bellante, and a powerhouse in her own right. The belle of the charity circuit, beloved by too many, in my opinion. According to the news, she was shot to death in a home invasion.

Nobody but me seemed to wonder how her husband and oldest son, both present at the time, had escaped without a single bump or bruise. Matteo still wore his fancy Rolex in the tearful interview he gave on the front steps of the family home.

My source showed up to the hotel that week with a cardboard bank box so heavy I could barely lift it.

That day, her eyes were as hard as diamonds.

When she fucked me, she pulled my hair so hard I cried out.

It didn’t slow her pace one bit. I had barely recovered from the first round when she was ready to go again.

After round four, when she lit the cigarette that signified she was taking a break, I asked about the box.

“Everything you could possibly need to take down Matteo Bellante. Just keep my name out of it.” She grabbed my arm, hard.

“I’m fucking serious, Sabine. Very few people have access to what’s in that box.

Matteo will destroy anyone and everyone who gets in his way.

Even me. If he comes for me over this, I’ll drop your body in the fucking river. Don’t make me do that.”

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 any way 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.”