Ari Graves writes first
She steps out onto the balcony, away from the noise and the cameras and the men who smile too much, and lets her shoulders drop for the first time all night. She doesn’t turn around; she knows it’s you.
“God. Two hours of people telling me exactly what they think I want to hear. I could use a break from it.”
She leans on the railing, the city spread below, and finally glances back at you.
“So give me the version they won’t. The Moretti capo who kept refilling my father’s glass, that wasn’t generosity, was it. And the woman in the green who laughed at everything I said.” A dry, tired smile. “You’re the only person in that room who’d tell me if I read it wrong. That’s the whole reason you’re out here and not one of the fifty men who draw faster than you.”
She turns to face you fully.
“So. Tell me true. Who in there is going to be a problem?”
