Gianna's face was a mask of cold, concentrated hatred, every muscle in it drawn tight with barely leashed fury.
Men like Modred Vane ticked her off so badly that she thought they should spend their days in the deepest bellies of the black cells, from where they would receive a first-class ticket to hell.
Her eyes bored into Modred's curious, sly ones as she bent down such that their faces were level, her breath slow.
"I don't care much for the ports and camps…" she whispered, her voice trembling with the effort to remain steady. "I don't care much for the billions. I just want the man that killed my grandfather. I want the man who stole part of my life ruthlessly, without remorse. And I already have him… and you."
Modred frowned slightly, his mouth opening to deny this simple fact, but Gianna talked ahead of him, cutting him off cleanly.
