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I set my glass on a passing server's tray before I crush the damn thing.

“What do they want?”

“We're still figuring that out. One of the research requests hit an archive connected to Knight Global's monitoring system. There were questions about your grandfather. Old financial records. Property records. Political affiliations. Family history.”

Fuck.

“Who made the requests?”

“Some were through third parties.”

“Of course they were.”

“But we traced enough to know there's a journalist involved.”

My jaw locks.

An investigative journalist.

Wonderful.

Because my experiences with reporters lately have been so fucking pleasant.

Ellie Vance flashes through my mind. That microphone. That camera.

Dani's face after that woman decided humiliating one of my employees on national television qualified as journalism.

Tank looking ready to commit murder.

Of course, I took care of Vance.

Permanently.

Well, professionally permanently. I mean, I didn't actually kill her. Though I did buy the company that employed her and had her ass fired and blacklisted.

Technically, the acquisition was already underway. The timing was simply convenient.

Still, that experience did nothing to improve my opinion of reporters.

They don't want truth. They want clicks.

Headlines.

Scandal.

Something ugly enough to keep people watching through the commercial break.

And they are not doing that to Granddad.

Absolutely fucking not.

“Kill it.”

Myrna blinks.

“The reporter?”

“The story, Myrna.”