I was too green to speak to the judge myself, not in a case as important as this, but I could comb through every spoken word looking for loopholes and intel that might assist Yara in persuading the judge that Dante Salvatore, born as Edward Davenport, second son to one of the wealthiest peerages in England, was worthy of bail.
“The United States of America versus Dante Salvatore,” Judge Hartford began in that old-school radio announcer voice that made him seem slightly jovial when he was truly anything but.
I’d once overheard him say he believed thieves should have their right hand chopped off in punishment for their crimes as they still did in Dubai. He was archaic, and he was ruthless against those he deemed lifelong criminals.
The lead lawyers on each case were asked to identify themselves, but I remained in my seat as a lowly associate. My leg bounced with excited nerves beneath the table, a habit I hadn’t been able to kick since childhood.
Only when a broad, hot palm wrapped fully around the circumference of my thigh beneath the table did I freeze.
Dante didn’t look at me, his eyes fixed to the judge and lawyers conferring at the judge’s bench, but he gave my thigh another squeeze before removing his hand.
I was so startled by his boldness that my mouth was still hanging open when Yara returned to the table and shot me an unimpressed look.
Bill Michaels and Ernesto Burgos snickered very lightly under their breath beside me. They were my fellow associates on the case who were allowed in the courtroom, with many more enlisted behind the scenes. I liked Ernesto well enough when he wasn’t with Bill, but together, they loved to ridicule me, and no issue was too far for them to take their teasing.
Including the fact that my fiancé had left me for my sister.
For the third time that day, I’d been embarrassed by my client.
Anger coiled in my belly, a serpent caught in a snare desperate to burst free and strangle the first thing in sight. I fought through the madness, my fingers clenched too hard around my Montblanc pen, dragging controlled breaths through my nose the way my therapist had taught me.
It did little to help clear the fog of red tinting my vision when I darted another glance at Dante. He was staring at me from the corner of his eyes, his lips compressed just slightly as if he fought a smile at my expense.
It was official.
I hated him.
Didn’t he realize I’d taken this case on as a favor to my sister? That I normally stayed fifty yards away from Made Men, that they made me sick with painful memories and injustices.
He was supposed to love Cosima, so why the hell was he finding ways to embarrass her sister in front of her boss?
I shifted in my seat and picked at a hangnail until it bled.
It helped calm me down.
When I looked at Dante again, he was frowning slightly at me, his hand in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. A moment later, a pristine white handkerchief floated into my lap.
I glared at it, annoyed he was the kind of man to carry such a thing because I’d always found the habit gentlemanly and attractive. Spitefully, I ground my bleeding thumb into the fabric so the blood smeared across the whiteness.
Dante’s lips, nearly the same color red that I’d deposited on the fabric, tightened again with a suppressed grin.
I ground my teeth and forced myself to focus on the proceedings once again.
Judge Hartford laid out the charges under the RICO Act––the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization Act––stating that Dante Salvatore was being indicted on three counts: first-degree murder, illegal gambling and racketeering, and money laundering.
The murder charge was the real focus of the case, though. Some charges just couldn’t stick unless they were adhered to something weightier with more burden of proof. Murder was the anchor for the case the state had been building against Dante Salvatore in the five years since he’d moved to America and become one of the biggest crime bosses in modern history.
If we could just get him clear of that charge, the prosecution’s case would fall like a poorly constructed house of cards.
I was mulling that over when the judge asked Dante how he pleaded to the charges.
It was only then that I clued into the energy emanating from the mafioso at my side. The air around him seemed to solidify like an invisible force field, and when he spoke, the only sound in the entire room was the European cadence of his voice. It was so still, it seemed everyone was holding their breath.
Even me.
Slowly, his large body unraveling almost endlessly with a grace no man who muscled should’ve been capable of, Dante rose to his feet. Once there, he slanted a quick glance at the closest cluster of photogs, did up his suit jacket button calmly, and then locked eyes with the judge.