“No,” she agreed. “But it’s how leverage works. I have a list of every off-the-books payment your campaign manager took from Silas Vane three years ago. You’ll get it the moment my people walk.”
People still needed help.
His name was Ezra Cross. He was an investigative journalist with kind eyes and a bad habit of digging into city hall’s closed files. He found her because he was looking into Silas Vane’s sudden bankruptcy and the mysterious Queen of Diamonds. He found her again because she let him. He had a way of saying her name—Destiny—like it wasn’t a warning label. Like it was just a word for someone he wanted to know. destiny deville
For six months, she lived two lives: the queen of the underground by night, and a woman who burned pancakes and laughed at bad movies by morning. Ezra knew what she did. He didn’t approve. But he didn’t turn away, either. “You’re not a criminal,” he told her once, in the dark of her apartment. “You’re a mirror. You show people their own reflection. They just don’t like what they see.” “No,” she agreed