I fold my arms across my chest. “So what exactly are you proposing?”
Kir pulls out one of the kitchen chairs and sits. “You write the article,” he says. “But at my pace and on my terms. I’ll give you everything you need. Interviews, documents, financials, internal communications—s**t no other reporter will ever get their hands on. Stuff that’ll make your editor cream his khakis.”
“In exchange,” he says, “I control the timeline. I decide when things come out and in what order. Because if you publish too soon or too much, my father will know it came from me, and then neither of us will be alive to see Christmas.”
I chew on this. It’s not nothing. In fact, it’s the kind of deal reporters dream about: an insider at the highest level, handing you the keys to the kingdom on a silver platter.
