Stoking the Fire (Salus Security #1) - Teodora Kostova Page 0,24

She barely leaves the penthouse anymore, save for her physical therapy appointments and hospital tests.

I itch to follow her, to make sure she’s all right, but I know how much she hates my babying her, so I stay where I am.

“You could have handled that better, don’t you think?” Mom’s voice cuts through the silence.

“Livvy, don’t start,” Dad replies without much inflection.

“So, what now?” I ask, not really interested in hearing them bicker at a time like this. “Do we know what they wanted? Why they attacked?”

“Yes. According to the eyewitnesses’ account and the security cameras footage, they were very vocal about their displeasure about the new issue of Dawn.”

My father’s eyes turn cold, his posture stiffening.

Understanding dawns on me. This month’s issue of Dawn came out yesterday, provoking a storm through most news outlets. It’s dedicated to the rise of the neo-Nazi movement in the US and worldwide, with several analytical pieces by prominent journalists, politicians, and novelists.

I mostly tune the noise out. My father asked me to write an article for it, and I did, but I’m not interested in any political standoffs. That’s my father’s job; the part of his job he loves the most, in fact.

“We knew there would be pushback when we decided to publish the issue,” my father says.

“Pushback!” I exclaim. “People are dead, Dad! I wouldn’t call that pushback.” I make exaggerated air quotes with my fingers.

“So, what? It’s my fault extremists decided to storm a building and start shooting at people?” My father’s voice rises, making me flinch. “Is it? Am I not allowed to publish well-written, well-researched articles on a topic that’s important to many people? Or is freedom of speech something used only in court nowadays, as an argument for getting criminals off the hook?”

“Dennis.” Mom’s voice is level but her intention is unmistakable. My father closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “This is not productive.”

My father nods jerkily before his eyes settle back on me. “I can’t turn back time and stop it from happening. What I can do is support the people affected by this, protect my employees, and my family from any future attacks.” He walks back around his desk and sits. “Anyone who works for me, for any of my publications, knows the risks. We publish controversial pieces that many may not like. We expose corruption, and fraud, and morally ambiguous decisions made by those in power. It’s not the first time we’ve been targeted, you know that. But it’s the first time someone has died as a result.” He clasps his hands on the desk, his eyes growing even colder. “So, in light of the current situation, security has been upgraded in every one of our office buildings and here at home.”

My father’s eyes glide to my mother again. She turns in her seat to face me.

“We want you to move back home, Zach. Temporarily,” she adds hastily when I open my mouth to protest. “Until all this mess is sorted. It’ll be much harder to provide twenty-four-hour security for your studio in the West Village. Your building doesn’t even have a reception desk.”

“I’m not moving back here,” I say flatly, glancing at my father. Does he think he can lure me back here just because it’s Mom who’s asking?

“Sweetheart, think about it,” Mom says, a gentle hand on my arm. I look back at her. “You’re here to see Evie most days anyway, and there’s plenty of space. You probably won’t even see us most days.” There’s something like regret in her blue eyes, but she skillfully chases it away with a blink.

“It’s not that,” I say meekly. “I love my studio. It’s much closer to the subway station and easier to get to St. John’s. And I like my privacy.”

“You won’t be using the subway for the foreseeable future,” my father says matter-of-factly.

“Like hell I won’t.”

He puffs out a longsuffering sigh. “You’ll be assigned one of the company cars and use it to get anywhere you want. However, I’d advise against wandering around the city for no reason.”

I look at him, incredulous. “I’m not being chauffeured everywhere on top of moving back to the Upper East Side. It’s just not happening. That’s not my life anymore.”

“Dennis,” Mom cuts in. “You have to tell him everything.”

“There’s more?”

When my father speaks, it’s clear from the tone of his voice that he isn’t happy about it. “Death threats were sent to multiple email accounts to make sure we acknowledged them. At first, they were