Chapter 2
Sabine
My copy of the newspaper 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?”
“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.
I locked my phone, but my shoulders stayed tight. I told myself it was just noise. People talk. People posture.
Still, my gaze kept drifting to my coworkers hovering at the windows lining three walls. I told myself it was fine. My car was old, but it was fully insured. I could replace it.
A delivery guy came in through the side entrance, holding a stack of padded envelopes. The security badge clipped to his shirt didn’t hide the fact that I had never seen him before. My eyes followed him until he was out of sight.
The clock on the wall ticked loud enough to make me notice it. I flexed my hands, stretching my fingers until my knuckles popped. My coffee had gone cold.
Someone from copy passed by with a smile. “Hell of a piece,” she said, resting her hand briefly on my shoulder.
“Thanks,” I said. My voice was even, but my throat felt tight. I stood and walked to Mark’s door, tapping on the frame. He was on the phone, but looked up and nodded toward the chair across from his desk. I sat, rolling my neck. The headache was worse than before.
“A detective will be up to ask questions and take your statement. I have Barb from Legal coming over to sit in on that.”
“Is that necessary, Mark?” I squeezed the bridge of my nose. I knew the story was going to be a bombshell, but I didn’t expect it to go quite like this.
“Yeah Sabine. It’s necessary.”
I took a deep breath. “Fine. Tell me about this security business. Tell me how you know they’re not connected to Bellante.”
“That was my first question, whether they’re connected to anyone here.
My cousin in Philly gave me the name of a company he’s used before.
They're sending a female team. Ex-military, vetted, clean. They’ll assess the threat, decide what needs to be done, and do it. That’s what we’re paying them for.”
“Decide what needs to be done and do it? Do what exactly? Shadow me? Keep my dishwasher from exploding? How am I supposed to work with a babysitter on my ass?”
He stood, shaking his head at me, and crossed to his door, closing it firmly. “You’re not going to be working for a while, Sabine.”
I sat up straighter, my shoulders tightening instantly. “The fuck does that mean?”
“You’re in danger, that’s what it means.
Come on, Sabine. You know how the Bellantes operate.
You have documents that can destroy them.
This story… the AG will open an investigation.
She won’t have a choice. If all goes well, they’ll arrest these motherfuckers.
But the network is big, wide.” He exhaled loudly, running a hand through his unruly hair.
“It’s a fucking hornet’s nest, that’s what it is. ”
“So what? I just sit in my apartment and watch reality TV and wait for… what? I’ve never run from danger before, not with any of my stories.”
“I don’t know. I really don’t. But this isn’t some crank calling your desk or sending vague threats.
The car is a clear escalation. The goddamn story’s only been out since four this morning and we’re already waiting for a fucking detective over your burned-out car!
” His phone rang, cutting him off just when he was getting loud.
He answered, listened for a moment, then hung it up as he stood.
“Barb’s waiting for us in the conference room. ”
“Great.” I followed him back through the bullpen to the hall that led to the elevators.
Barb was already at the head of the long table where we held morning meetings and planned stories. Her black suit was immaculate. She set her briefcase on the table and gestured to the seats on one side of her.
“All right,” she said, hands folded. “You’re not in trouble, Sabine.
But you’re a reporter who has published a high-profile story, and your property was just destroyed in what looks like a targeted act.
The police want details, obviously. We’re going to limit those details to what’s relevant to the arson itself. ”
Mark gave me a pointed look.
Barb went on. “If they ask about your work, you tell them to feel free to read the story in today’s paper.
If they ask about anything beyond what’s directly in that expose, you say you can’t discuss unpublished material.
If they ask about sources, you say that’s protected under federal law.
Don’t speculate, don’t guess, don’t try to ‘help’ fill in blanks.
Answer only what you know for certain about the fire. ”
“I don’t know anything about the fire. Hell, I only have Mark and Zach’s word that it was my car that caught fire.”
“Oh, it is your car,” she said, looking over her reading glasses at me. “In any case, stick to the basics. I’ll be in the room with you the whole time.”
A knock rattled the glass panel in the door before either of us could say more. A tall man in a rumpled suit and long coat opened the door tentatively. Barb stood and crossed to him, her heels clicking sharply on the linoleum.
“Detective Michael Reilly with the City Police, ma’am,” the man said, extending his hand.
“I’m Barbara Welsh. Attorney for North Coast Globe, and I’m here on behalf of the paper and Ms. Barrett in her capacity as an employee.”
He gave Barb a polite nod before looking at me. “Sabine Barrett?”
I nodded and he stepped closer, extending his hand to shake mine.
“Ms. Barrett,” he said, flipping open a notebook. “Your car was torched less than an hour ago in the Globe parking garage. Security footage shows a hooded individual breaking the driver’s side window and pouring accelerant. Do you have any enemies?”
I almost laughed. “I write about corrupt politicians and organized crime for a living. It would be shorter to list the people who like me.”
Barb’s hand brushed mine under the table. A reminder.
“Any recent threats?” Reilly pressed.
“Plenty,” I said. “Most of them anonymous.”
He frowned. “Anything specific? Something that might connect to your current story?”
I felt Barb shift. “Sabine can’t discuss any information that would compromise her sources,” she said smoothly.
I kept my gaze level, but my fingers had curled tight against my thigh under the table.
“That wasn’t the question.”
“It’s the answer,” Barb replied. “We’ll provide any public statements or non-privileged materials you need, Detective. My office will coordinate.”
His jaw tightened. “If we can’t rule this out as unrelated, it makes protecting her a lot harder.”
Mark finally spoke. “Which is exactly why we have counsel here, Detective. Sabine will cooperate, but not at the expense of burning her work or her sources.”
Reilly scribbled something in his notebook. “Ironic choice of words, sir. We’ll keep you posted. In the meantime, Ms. Barrett… you might want to avoid parking in open lots.”
I didn’t point out that firebombing a moving car was just as easy.