“I have documents,” he finally said. “Evidence I’ve been compiling for months. Financial records, communications, witness statements from contractors who were pressured to use substandard materials.”
“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”
“Because you were investigating me. Because I didn’t know if I could trust you. Because—” He stopped. Started again. “Because every person I’ve ever trusted with information has eventually used it against me.”
The admission hit me somewhere behind my ribs. Not because it was surprising — I’d sensed the walls around him since the beginning — but because he’d said it out loud. To me. After last night, the saying of it meant something different than it would have a week ago.
“I’m not them,” I said.
“I’m beginning to understand that.”
Outside my window, Chicago was waking up. Cars crawling through morning traffic. Pedestrians hunched against the wind. A city full of people who had no idea that Victor Corsetti was orchestrating a corporate war that could destroy thousands of jobs, tank a major development project, and ruin the reputation of the one man standing in his way.
“I want to see your evidence,” I said. “All of it. And I want to tell this story.”
“Em—”
“Not just the corruption angle. The whole story. Victor’s vendetta. Richard’s betrayal. Your investigation.” I turned from the window. “And you. Your past. Why you built this empire and what it cost you.”
The silence that followed felt different. Heavier. The silence of someone deciding something.
“You want to expose me.”
“I want to tell the truth.” I held the phone tighter. “That’s not the same thing.”
I thought about all the stories I’d written over the years. The corrupt politicians and shady developers and corporate executives who’d used their power to hurt people who couldn’t fight back. I’d made a career out of dragging their secrets into daylight.
But Sebastian wasn’t like them. He’d built his empire from violence and poverty, yes. He’d made compromises, cut corners, done things he wasn’t proud of. But he’d also created jobs, revitalized neighborhoods, given opportunities to people who reminded him of where he came from.
The truth about Sebastian Laurent was complicated. Messy. Human.
“You’re not a villain,” I said. “You’re not a hero either. You’re a man who learned that power was the only thing that could keephim safe, and you’ve spent your entire adult life proving that lesson right.”
“And what happens when I’m wrong?”
“Then you learn a new lesson.”
I heard him exhale — a sound that might have been frustration or relief or something in between that didn’t have a clean name.
“Come to my office,” he said. “Bring everything you have on Hartley. We’ll compare notes.”
“This isn’t a collaboration. I’m not writing a puff piece to make you look good.”
“I’m not asking you to. I’m asking you to help me destroy the man who’s threatening everyone I care about.” A beat. “What you write afterward is your decision.”
Everyone I care about. The words landed differently now than they would have a week ago. Differently even than they would have yesterday, before The Obsidian, before he’d pressed his lips to my temple and asked for one night.
“I’ll be there in an hour.”
I hung up before he could respond.
The shower was cold — my building’s ancient water heater had given up sometime around three AM — but it helped clear my head. I dressed quickly, pulling on jeans and a sweater, stuffing my notes and laptop into my messenger bag.
My phone buzzed again as I was locking my apartment door.
Unknown number. No caller ID. The timing tightened something in my chest — too precise, too convenient.
I answered anyway. “Rivera.”
