The lobby was a hunting ground by the time I got there. Reporters swarmed like hyenas, cameras flashing like a thousand tiny suns.
“Dr. Rossi! Did you sleep with Luca Moretti for funding?”
“Is your research a mafia front?”
I pushed through, my heels cracking like gunshots on marble. A microphone jabbed my cheek. “Who bankrolled your lab? Moretti or the Volkovs?”
I froze, turning slowly. The crowd parted, revealing Gregory Holt of the Daily Sentinel, his cheap suit and cheap smirk igniting my rage.
“Name,” I demanded.
He adjusted his tie, smug. “Gregory Holt. Got a comment, Doctor?”
I plucked his press badge, holding it aloft. “Gregory Holt. Enjoy your job? Because my lawyers will make sure you’re unemployed by dawn.”
He laughed, a wet, greasy sound. “You’ll sue? For what?”
“Defama
