Her love for journalism had started in high school after working on the school newspaper. What was meant to pass some time and be an easy grade had changed the entire trajectory of her life. Now she just needed it to pay off and become the career she wanted it to be.
In college, she’d worked on the school’s newspaper, Central Michigan Life. She’d been the news editor, a senior reporter and a copy editor. Her senior year, she’d interned at the Flint Journal, covering city government and breaking news. After graduation, she’d gotten her first official job with the Morning Sun. As a staff reporter, she’d embraced local city township and public education beats, gaining valuable experience in both hard news and feature writing. That position had lasted three years when she’d been offered a position with the Chicago Daily Herald writing lifestyle articles about foodstuffs at the Long Grove Apple Fest, algal bloom in Herrick Lake and the nice women who volunteered at the community gardens. It had paid well but lacked the substantive bite of the stories she wanted to write.
By happenstance, a friend whose husband was a producer for the Chicago Tribune had given her a heads up that they were looking for a news reporter. Neema had jumped at the opportunity. The Tribune was the most-read daily newspaper of the Chicago metropolitan area and the Great Lakes region. With the sixth highest circulation for American newspapers, and unlike many of its competitors, its numbers were growing.
Although Neema still occasionally got the usual fluff story about school spelling bees, she’d been able to write more serious pieces about Chicago’s political scene, corporate corruption, and the challenges facing the education system.
Social media had significantly changed how news made it to people’s front doors. The political outcry from a presidential administration about newspapers and reporters being the delegates of fake news had not served the industry well. It also hadn’t helped that some news organizations had gone the way of tabloid sensationalism over quality reporting. But the Tribune had stayed true to its roots, maintaining its print presence and expanding its digital footprint.
Most newsrooms were still the stomping grounds for white males, their boys’ club mentality not at all inclusive of women in general. Women of color, far and few between, were an anomaly. For Neema, every day in the office was an uphill battle trying to prove her worth in a world that saw little value in her humanity let alone her ability. But it was a fight Neema welcomed, even when the struggle sometimes felt unsurmountable. So, one lead, just a hint of impropriety somewhere in the city, or with one of its stellar citizens, could once again change her life. But everything about Davis Black and his picture-perfect family felt too elusive to ever amount to anything that Neema could use and she didn’t have the time to waste chasing dead ends.
Minutes later she sauntered into the Tribune’s new offices at Prudential Plaza. It was a stark contrast to the original offices at Tribune Tower on North Michigan Avenue. Neema had started in the newsroom while they’d still been in the landmark building that had housed them for almost an entire century. It was one of the most recognized newsrooms in the world with its neo-Gothic beauty that rose some thirty-six floors into Chicago’s skyline. Inside, it had been a roach-infested dump with large cubicles from the 1970s, built-in file cabinets, antiquated television sets that sat on desktop corners and ceiling tiles that routinely leaked and crumbled. It was currently undergoing a renovation, having been sold to a Los Angeles-based developer who was turning the space into luxury condos.
Neema remembered well the first time she’d walked into the building’s lobby for her interview. She’d been instantly smitten with the space, the walls engraved with quotes about the media industry. Her journalistic spirit had been instantly inspired. The new office space was ultramodern and much nicer, yet lacked a certain je ne sais quoi possessed by the old building.
Taking the elevator to the offices on the twenty-seventh floor, Neema shot a quick glance to her watch. The noise level when she stepped into the newsroom was just a semblance of what it could be, voices raised as reporters shouted over each other. The open-concept space was set up with honeycomb-like pods comprised of desks that shifted from sitting to standing at the push of a button. Floor-to-ceiling windows gave them all spectacular views of Millennium Park.
The digital team and breaking news team both sat room-center under a massive TV mount hanging from the ceiling. The other departments—lifestyles, food and dining, and sports—clustered around them. The open floor plan had taken some getting used to, but it fostered a wealth of organic conversation that most of the staff found engaging. This morning was no exception.
“What’s going on?” Neema questioned as she hurried to her desk, noting the burst of activity in the room.
Rose Edmonds, the digital news editor for the investigative team, greeted her warmly then shrugged her narrow shoulders. “They’re debating the merits of gun control and active shooter drills in the public school system. Brooke scored a sweet interview with the chief executive of the NRA.”
“Lucky Brooke,” Neema stated as she cut her eyes in Brooke Donovan’s direction. She gave the woman a nod and a bright smile, Brook returning the morning greeting with a wink of her eye.
The statuesque, blue-eyed blonde was an on-air personality who’d fallen into journalism by chance. She had dated an NBC newscaster in her late teens, the man having groomed her for the spotlight. He’d been her first husband and the father of her two oldest children. After their divorce, Brooke had struck out on her own, landing the job with the Tribune. She was passionate about news and had been a star in the newsroom ever since.
Despite them being polar opposites of each other, Brooke had proved herself to be a good friend. She’d gone to bat for Neema a few times, helping her to fight for stories the managing editor would have passed on her for without a second thought. Neema was genuinely happy for Brooke, but it also struck a nerve, reminding her that she needed to step up her game.
It took most of the morning for Neema to wade through the multitude of emails in her inbox and then clear away the mess on her desk. She had just completed a half dozen follow-up calls on a story she was working on about the new school superintendent when the managing editor for investigations called her into his office.
George Pappariella had been with the newspaper since forever. He was old enough to be her father and wore his age like a badge of honor. He was also set in his ways, and considered women in the newsroom an affront to the American spirit. It wasn’t often that he addressed Neema, or any of the other women directly, usually preferring to delegate through third parties.
“How’s it going, Nina?” he asked.
Her eyes narrowed ever so slightly. “It’s Neema,” she said, repeating her name slowly. “Nee...ma.”
He nodded. “Neema, yes. Okay. Well, how are things?”
“Things are well, sir,” she answered, attitude clinging to each word. “Thank you for asking,” she quipped politely.
“Good to hear.” He quickly dismissed with the small talk. “We’re going to have to ask you to do some night shifts for the next few weeks. Fuller needs some time off to help with his kids, so he’s taking a short leave of absence. We need you to start tonight.”
Her eyes widened slightly. Jason Fuller had been hired to do the late-night news beat about six months ago. His very pregnant wife had recently given birth to twins, boys named Wayne and Garth, after the characters from that 1990s movie Wayne’s World. “I can’t start tonight. I have a prior commitment.”
Pappariella looked up from the papers he’d been shifting from side to side atop his desk. “Excuse me?”
“I’ll be delighted to help out, but starting tonight’s not possible. I have a prior commitment that I cannot cancel. And the union requires employees be given sufficient notice of any schedule changes.”
Pappariella bristled slightly. “I was under the impression you were a team player, Nina.”
The man’s face skewed, his mouth puckering as if he’d tasted something sour. Heat flooded his cheeks with color, his olive complexion suddenly turning a deep shade of Christmas red. He bit down against his bottom lip before finally responding. “Can you start tomorrow? Is that sufficient enough notice?”
Neema gave him a smug smile. “It is. Thank you.”
He waved her away, the gesture dismissive.
Neema turned on her chunky heel.
As she closed the office door behind her, the smirk that blessed her expression was telling. It wasn’t necessarily a win, she thought to herself, but felt immensely rewarding to have stood up for herself.
CHAPTER 2
The three-day getaway had Davis feeling like a new man. Excluding his sister’s wedding, the trip to Las Vegas had been uneventful. He and his brothers drank much, ate well and gambled a lot. There had been laughter from the time they woke in the morning until they dropped into their beds at night. During their waking hours, there’d been an abundance of attention from some very beautiful women. Over that last dinner together, they had vowed to take more time cultivating their sibling bonds, to focus more on self-care and to learn to let go of those things they couldn’t control. It had been cathartic and everything Davis thought he needed.
He moved through the entrance of his office, flipping on the lights and dropping his briefcase onto the desktop. He’d had an assistant. Rebecca, or Becky for short. Becky had been a super-focused computer geek studying at the University of Chicago. Two weeks before his Vegas trip she had handed in her resignation, leaving the country to study overseas. Now he had to start the interview process over again, and until he found someone new, prepare his own coffee.
He’d just inserted a compact K-Cup into the Keurig coffee maker when the front door swung open and Mingus sauntered inside. Davis instinctively knew his brother’s visit wasn’t a casual call to see how he was doing. His brother’s expression was dour and Davis felt his good mood drop into the pit of his stomach.
“Hey, what’s up?” he said, the two men slapping palms and bumping shoulders in a one-armed hug.
As was his way, Mingus got right to the point. “That meeting Dad wanted needs to happen tonight. Seven o’clock. At that African restaurant on West Randolph Street.”
“Awaze Grill?”
Mingus shrugged. “He said you’d know the place. Something about goat and chapati.”
Davis gave him a slight smile. “Best curry and fried flat bread in town.”
His brother nodded. “He said don’t be late.”
“Will Dad be there?”
Mingus shrugged. “Just make sure you are,” he said as he headed out the door.
When Mingus turned the corner out of sight, Davis grabbed his coffee and headed to his desk to get what was already proving to be a very long day started.
The telephone began ringing but Davis let it go to voice mail. A familiar voice suddenly sounded from the device and he felt himself smile. Mrs. Anne Boyd, a resident in the twenty-fourth district, was calling to complain about stray cats passing through her front yard. Last week it had been about a tree limb hanging haphazardly over the sidewalk. Before that, it had been the mailpersons and their willful disregard for her hedges. He and Becky had found her amusing, even when she was most annoying. It hadn’t taken Davis long to figure out Mrs. Boyd was simply lonely, needing her weekly phone call so that there was someone she could talk to. Davis made a mental note to stop by her home to sit and chat, if only for a few minutes.
Davis considered it an honor to represent the constituents in his district. Technically, he was just a sitting member of the city council with a fancy-sounding title. The West Side of Chicago embraced a large community of working-class, low-income, poverty-stricken minorities, its residents mostly Black, Puerto Rican and Mexican. There were also some smaller communities of blue-collar, lower middle-class and middle-class white residents of historically Polish, Italian, Czech and Greek descent. Most recently, newer communities of middle-class and upper middle-class white residents created by rapid gentrification, selective corporate investments and unequal distribution of city resources had taken root. The diversity of his district gave Davis hope about the future of Chicago and what it might mean for the generations that came after him.
The West Side was home to the University of Illinois at Chicago, and the United Center, home base for the Chicago Bulls and Chicago Blackhawks. It boasted three of Chicago’s largest parks: Humboldt Park, Garfield Park and Douglas Park. Additionally, Cook County Jail, the United States’ largest single-site jail, and a secretive interrogation facility maintained by the Chicago Police Department, were both on the West Side of Chicago and in his district.
Policing the district and staying on top of the community’s needs had proved to be two full-time jobs in a twenty-four-hour day. Wielding a surprising amount of power, Davis was responsible for most things that happened in his district. He was the first point of contact when something went wrong on someone’s block or if something needed to happen that required city approval. He’d become a master negotiator and was responsible for a budget in excess of one million dollars for capital improvement projects like repaving roads, replacing traffic signals or upgrading street and alley lighting.
He was two years into a four-year term and clearly earning his six-figure salary to do right by the people who’d voted him into office. Even if it meant sitting with an old woman to talk about cats. He wasn’t, however, sure he could sit across the table from one of the city’s most notorious crime lords for casual conversation. Most especially knowing the man wanted something from him. A favor that he imagined could easily cripple his political career.
* * *
The decadent aroma from the restaurant’s kitchen greeted Davis at the front door. He took a deep inhale, hoping to still the nerves that rippled in the pit of his stomach. There was a nice crowd enjoying their evening meal and he suddenly found himself feeling self-conscious, hoping he wouldn’t be recognized.
As if reading his mind, Mingus tossed him a look over his shoulder. “They have a private meeting room upstairs. Balducci has rented it for the evening.”
Davis nodded as his brother led the way, guiding him toward the back of the building and up a short flight of steps to an area used for events. Two men in dark suits stood guard outside the door, eyeing Davis and his brother coolly. Mingus gave them both a nod and they stepped aside, allowing them to pass. Davis suddenly had questions. Clearly, Mingus found nothing wrong with the predicament they were standing knee-deep in the midst of. Everything about this meeting had Davis on edge. He thought his brother’s level of comfort with the situation was deeply disturbing.
Alexander Balducci sat in the center of the room, occupying a table set to seat four. He was a big man, tall and wide, with a solid beer gut. His complexion was a strange shade of yellow-brown, highlighting the slight white rings around his eyes from too much time in a tanning bed. His eyes were a bright blue, crystal pools of water that made you feel like you might drown in them if he stared too hard. Women found him attractive, the man always nicely polished in his expensive wool and silk suits and Italian-leather shoes. He carried himself with an air of authority that many found intimidating. Davis, acutely aware his own anxiety level had risen tenfold, squared his shoulders as they moved forward.
A young woman sat at Balducci’s side. She was strikingly beautiful, with a porcelain complexion and raging red hair pulled into a messy ponytail high atop her head. She held an Apple iPhone in the palm of her hand, her attention on the screen. As Davis and his brother approached the table, she never bothered to look up from whatever it was that was keeping her occupied.
Mingus greeted the man politely and made the introductions. “This is my brot
her, Alderman Black. Davis, this is Mr. Balducci,” he said.
Alexander stood and extended his hand. “Alderman, it’s a pleasure. Your father speaks quite highly of you.”
Davis returned the handshake. “Mr. Balducci.”
Alexander gestured toward an empty seat. “I appreciate you taking time out of your schedule to speak with me.”
“My father didn’t really give me much choice,” Davis said sternly.
He suddenly felt Mingus’s hand on his shoulder. “I’ll be outside,” his brother said as he excused himself from the room. Neither man spoke as they watched until Mingus had exited the space.
Davis took a seat in the chair the other man had pointed him to. He tossed a quick glance at the woman, who was still focused on her phone, dismissive of them all.
“Well, I’m glad your father could be persuasive,” Balducci said, a slight smile pulling at his thin lips.
“Well, I’m not sure why...” Davis started.
A commotion at the door stalled his comment and had their attention. An elderly man carrying a tray of lidded serving dishes came through the entrance. He was followed by a woman who eyed them all curiously. Davis recognized the restaurant’s owner. The man was chattering eagerly, seemingly excited to be serving their meals. The waitress didn’t seem as enthusiastic.
“I took the liberty of ordering for the table,” Balducci said as he grasped the corner of a cloth napkin, shook it open and dropped it into his lap.
“I won’t be staying,” Davis quipped.
The redhead lifted her eyes for the first time, tossing Davis a look. Curiosity washed over her expression before she shifted her gaze to Balducci. He gave her a slight nod of his head and she turned back to her cell phone. She never spoke and her companion didn’t seem interested in introducing them.
“These dishes are the very best cuisine of my home,” the proprietor was saying, a wide grin spread full across his face. “My wife and I prepare it all ourselves, the recipes passed down through generations of our people.”
Harlequin Romantic Suspense March 2021 Page 72