Page 5 of Crown Of Blood

"Danny, it's midnight."

"So it is." He drops a bag from the 24-hour deli on my desk and sits across from me, legs stretched, unbothered by the stack of papers he's knocking over. "Dinner for the workaholic."

"Thanks." I open the bag to find fries. "You realize you brought me carbs, right?"

"You're welcome."

He looks too polished for this hour—tie loosened but still in place, watch glinting in the lamplight—the perfect DeLaurentisheir, groomed for politics since birth. Where I chase headlines, he makes them.

He studies me, eyes narrowing. "You're doing it again."

"Doing what?"

"That thing where you pretend you're fine so no one realizes you've stopped eating and sleeping."

I arch a brow. "That's rich coming from Mr. Senator's-Office-by-Thirty."

He smirks, but it fades fast. "I got a call today."

"Let me guess. Dad?"

"No." His tone sharpens. "The mayor's office."

I freeze.

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, voice low. "You're asking dangerous questions, Isa."

"I always ask dangerous questions."

"This is different. You're not poking a politician anymore—you're poking them."

I pretend to shrug, but the weight of his words lands heavily. "I'm just following the money."

He runs a hand through his hair, pacing now. "Do you hear yourself? The Morettis don't play in the same sandbox as the rest of us. You think because you write with integrity, the world will protect you? It won't."

"I don't need protection."

"Yes, you do," he snaps. "You just don't know it yet."

The silence that follows isn't comfortable—it's full of everything we don't say.

About the night I was grabbed outside a courthouse for exposing a police bribery ring.

About how he paid off the right people to make the story disappear from the news.

About how I kept writing anyway.

Finally, I sigh. "Danny, if I don't tell the truth, who will?"

"Someone who isn't my sister."

I can't help the small smile that tugs at my mouth. "I didn't ask to be your problem."

He looks at me for a long moment, something soft flickering behind the exhaustion. "You're not my problem," he says quietly. "You're my heartache."

That cracks something inside me. He stands before I can reply.

"Just… be careful," he says. "And lock your damn doors."