When his gaze finds mine again, the anger is still there. He holds on my face the way he did in the office when his hand stopped an inch from my jaw.
"Six years," he says.
"Six years."
"You sat across from me in press rooms. You wrote about my line. You came to my house and drank my tea. And the whole time you were holding enough to put my family in a federal courtroom."
"Yes."
"And you didn't use it."
His voice is quieter. He's calculating.
"I've had plenty of reasons," I say. "You've given me plenty of reasons."
"I know."
"That's what my father does," he says. "He watches. He files. He waits." His eyes stay on mine. "The difference is he always uses it."
"I'm not your father."
"No."
The muscle along his jaw releases by a degree.
"You're not."
Silence. The refrigerator hums.
"Delete it," Dante says.
"No."
"It's my family."
"The property filings, the donations, the zoning records are all public. I read them. I noticed the pattern."
"And the federal case? The sealed defendant?"
I don't answer.
His voice gets quieter, stripped down to something bare.
"Then go."
"The public records stay public. Everything else stays in my drawer."
"Why?"
"The sourcing wasn't airtight."
His jaw works, the same way it did when he heardspamand didn't buy it.
"Goodnight, Voss."
I stand. Pick up my laptop. Unplug my charger. Pick up my phone. Grab my coat from the hook by the door.
"Your apartment has no heat."
