Gianna Romano brought coffee at midnight.
I looked up from the mountain of financial records covering my desk—bank statements, transfer receipts, incorporation documents—and found her standing in the doorway with two steaming cups. She wasn't dressed for combat anymore. Soft clothes. Hair pulled back. The kind of outfit you wore when you planned to be up all night.
"You look terrible," she said.
"Thanks."
She set one cup in front of me and claimed the chair across the desk. "I figured if you're going to prove my family innocent, I should probably help."
I took the coffee. It was strong, bitter, exactly what I needed.
"I thought you wanted me dead."
"I do." Gianna pulled a stack of records toward her. "But I'd rather kill you honestly in the Trial of Blood than let someone else frame
