"I'm a journalist. I have many sources across various organizations. I don't discuss my sources."
"Naturally. I respect that. But when sources might be subjects of ongoing federal investigations, it becomes relevant. We'll talk more when we meet."
He hung up before I could respond.
I stood frozen in my kitchen, phone still pressed to my ear, trying to process what had just happened.
The FBI was investigating my connection to Luca. To Inferno. They were asking questions about the stories I'd written—stories that had been handed to me by someone they were actively investigating.
This was exactly what I'd been afraid of. Exactly what Luca had warned would happen if the raid footage got published. Except now the FBI was interested anyway, even without the footage.
Because I'd been too good. Too successful. Too suddenly connected to stories that exposed Vitale rivals and competition.
I'd made myself visible. And now I was being watched.
I needed to tell Luca about this. He needed to know the FBI was making connections between us.
Then I stopped myself.
Did I owe him that information? He'd released me from our arrangement. Told me I could walk away. If I was really free, I didn't owe him anything.
But if I was free, why did I want to call him so badly?
I set the phone down and made myself think rationally instead of emotionally.
FBI Agent David Reeves was investigating me. Asking about my sources. Making connections to the Vitale organization. That was a problem whether I was involved with Luca or not. My journalistic career depended on source protection and ethical reporting. If the FBI started publicly suggesting I was compromised, my reputation would be destroyed just as effectively as if Luca had spread those rumors himself.
I was caught between two threats now: Luca's potential retaliation if I walked away, and the FBI's investigation if I stayed.
Perfect. Just perfect.
***
Sunday afternoon I met Alex Park for coffee at our usual place in Park Slope. Alex had been a friend since journalism school, currently working for the Times covering city politics. He'd been the one who'd congratulated me on the Rodriguez exposé, who'd noticed my sudden string of successful stories.
"You look like hell," he said by way of greeting, sliding into the booth across from me.
"Thanks. You're a real confidence boost."
"Seriously though, are you sleeping?" He studied my face with the same analytical attention he brought to his reporting. "You've got dark circles that makeup isn't hiding."
I'd worn a turtleneck despite the warm October weather.
"I'm fine. Just been working a lot."
"On what? You haven't pitched anything new to the usual outlets. I checked."
Of course he'd checked. Alex was thorough about everything.
"Just some research. Following leads." I took a sip of my coffee to avoid his eyes.
"Leads on what?"
"Can't discuss it yet. You know how it is."
Alex leaned back and studied me with an expression I didn't like. "You've been weird lately. Since the Rodriguez story. Actually, since the Bianchi exposé. You've been different."
"Different how?"
