Page 33 of The Cost of Silence

I wet my lips. They feel too dry, too cracked. “There were some things after the article came out,” I admit. “Or… before the attack, at least.”

His jaw works once. “Definesome things.”

I take a breath, trying to steady the tremor in my chest. “The day the article dropped, I started getting calls from unknown numbers. No one speaking, just… breathing. Slow. Intentional.”

“Why didn’t you say something last night?” Nico’s voice is quiet, but there’s metal threaded through it.

“Because weird calls come with the territory,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “Reporters get all kinds of strange shit happen. And my dad used to say, ‘If the crazies are calling, you’re probably doing your job’ so,” I shrug one shoulder, “I didn’t connect it to any of this until now.”

Adi glances at Nico, then back at me. “Anything else?”

I hesitate. The subway platform swims up in my memory, the shove, the sting of concrete, the way no one stopped. “Friday night, after dinner at my mom’s, someone pushed me getting off the train.” I force the words out calmly, like I’m reciting facts in a report. “I thought it was just a jerk in a hurry. I went down hard. Scraped my hands, knees. But now…” I trail off.

Silence stretches. It hums.

Nico swears under his breath. “You didn’t think that was something I should know?”

“I just met you,” I snap, heat flooding my cheeks. “You were already pissed about the article and the car, I didn’t feel like handing you more reasons to think I’m some reckless idiot who doesn’t know how to exist.”

His gaze flares, something raw and frustrated in it. “I don’t think you’re an idiot.”

“Could have fooled me.”

Matteo makes a low noise, like he’s watching a tennis match. “This is fun,” he mutters. “We should do this more often.”

Adi shoots him a look. Then he focuses back on me. “And the text message?”

I blink. “What text?”

“The one you blocked,” Nico says. “You mentioned it in the diner last night. I heard enough to know it wasn’t nothing.”

Of course he did.

“It said ‘Pretty lights’,” I admit, throat tight. “I’d just finished putting up my decorations. I thought it was some troll from Twitter being… creepy. Or maybe a neighbor with bad boundaries. I blocked it.”

Adriano exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of his nose. Matteo’s expression finally loses its last trace of amusement. He moves around to sit on the arm of the couch, close but not crowding me.

“Okay,” Adi says. “So, we have anonymous calls, a shove on a crowded platform, a text that indicates visual proximity to your apartment, an attempted vehicular assault, a break-in, and now a fire targeting your floor.”

When he lays it all out like that, my pulse skids. “It wasn’t random,” I whisper.

“No,” Nico says. “It wasn’t random.”

The room feels smaller suddenly, the walls closer. I curl my fingers into the hem of the sweater, grounding myself in the rough knit. “So, what now?” I ask. “You think the Russians didit? Because of the article? Because I mentioned certain contracts and shell companies by name?”

Adriano’s jaw visibly clenches. “Those offshore accounts are legal and so are the shell companies.”

I tilt my head, not letting him cower me, and see the challenge in his eyes, before he gives me the tiniest nod of respect. “Maybe, but when I got the tip to write this story, I did my research.”

“Tip?” Nico asks, moving closer.

“Yes, about eighteen months ago, I got sent an article about ISM Holdings written and published in one of the financial papers. It said I should look deeper, so I did.”

Matteo shakes his head with a derisive smirk. “So, someone sent you fishing and you shoved yourself on the line as the bait without knowing it.”

God, could he be right? Was I a pawn from the very first second this began? “I interviewed people who were scared to go on record,” I say. “I followed money that vanished into offshore accounts. I heard enough whispers to know I was circling something rotten. I just didn’t know who owned the rot.”

My father’s voice flickers through my mind:Truth isn’t safe. It’s just necessary.