“Kevlar’s a hot look for you.” I secure the Velcro seam. “We are definitely taking this home with us.”
Her golden hair slides off her shoulder when she turns my way. “You’re kind of a kinky bastard, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea. But don’t worry—you will.” I seal the promise with a kiss on her cheek. Then I hold her blouse while she slides her arms in.
“How are you feeling, champ?” I ask.
I’ve seen firsthand over the last weeks that Kennedy is stellar at compartmentalizing. Burying any pesky emotions like fear or doubt way down deep during the day. But at night, when we’re alone, that’s when the demons creep from their crypt and tell her that she’s bound to fail—or worse. And I’m grateful to be here—to be the man who gets to hold her when she trembles, the one she whispers those worries to, the one who helps her shoulder that burden.
She’ll never have to do it alone again.
“I’m good.” She grins back, and the gleam in her eye tells me that’s true.
I drop a peck on her nose and button her blouse, because the cast makes that difficult too. But as I look at the remnants of her injuries—still visible through her light makeup—it hits me. I turn her head, checking out the yellowish bruising in different lights.
“What’s wrong?”
“The defense is going to ask the judge to recuse you because of the bruises, the cast. They’ll say you’ll prejudice the jury.”
She frowns. “You think so?”
“It’s what I’d do.” I shrug.
Kennedy nods her head slowly, gazing at the carpet—seeing the potential exchange play out behind her eyes. “Okay. Then I’ll be ready to argue that motion.”
“Yeah,” I kiss her forehead now. “You will be.”
• • •
Kennedy walks into court like a general. The way I imagine Joan of Arc walked onto the battlefield—just daring the English to bring it on. I sit in the front row of the gallery, right behind her. Next to me is Connor Roth, the green-eyed, stone-faced marshal who took me up to her hospital room. He’s been by her side ever since.
While she speaks in hushed tones to the other prosecutors at the table, I check out Moriotti, on the opposite side of the courtroom, next to his own team of attorneys. He’s in his forties, short but stocky—powerful—with black, slicked hair that’s just starting to gray at the temples. He looks like a typical scumbag, even dressed up in an Italian suit, which I know at a glance cost him the average person’s mortgage payment. He follows Kennedy with his eyes, and when he notices the cast on her arm—the fucker laughs.
Rage shoots through my bloodstream like a speeding bullet, making me careless—thoughtless. I start to rise from my seat, intent on walking over there and ripping the motherfucker’s head off with my bare hands. And I pity the bailiff who gets in my way.
A strong grip on my shoulder holds me back.
“Don’t do it, Batman,” Roth murmurs. “Getting thrown out of court and locked up before the trial even starts won’t do your girl any favors.”
His words pull me from my gory fantasies, because he’s right. It sucks—but he’s right.
• • •
Three days later, I tell Kennedy I won’t be in court that afternoon. When worry shadows her face, I’m quick to explain I have some of my own work to catch up on. It’s a lie—Jake is awesome at holding down the fort, and even on maternity leave, Stanton has been picking up my slack from home. But it’s just a little lie—the good kind.
Because if she knew where I was really going, that shadow of concern would turn into a full-blown eclipse.
• • •
The modern-day Mafioso is very different from the olden days of Al Capone, fedora hats, and Tommy guns hidden in violin cases. The Sopranos got it pretty right. If you didn’t already know it, you’d never suspect that Carmine Bianco—the seventy-year-old, dark-haired, leather-faced guy in the back corner table of this neighborhood deli—is the supreme leader of a ruthless, multimillion-dollar criminal organization that the feds have been trying for two decades to pin a RICO charge on. He looks like somebody’s grandpa, or an old benevolent uncle.
Except for the two massive bastards standing behind him—with gun belts strapped beneath their jackets.
We’re the only customers in the deli, so when one of the big guys steps up to me a few feet short of the table, I automatically hold out my arms and he pats me down—checking for weapons or a wire. My whole life, people have commented on my youthful face, my boyish good looks, and have underestimated me because of them. I press that advantage now, and give Carmine an affable smile as I sit down across from him.
“Mr. Bianco, I’m Brent Mason. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
He puts his overflowing sandwich down and chews his mouthful, swiping a napkin across his lips with thick fingers. “You want a sandwich?”
I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.”
His eyes are sharp, gleaming like a switchblade as he takes me in—my gray suit, loosened tie, Rolex watch. “I don’t know you. I don’t know how you know me—but my money guy said I should meet with you, so here we are. What can you do for me, kid?”
His business advisor is an associate of an associate of one of my family’s longtime brokers. So I made a few calls—because it doesn’t matter if you’re a mobster or a prince: money always talks.
Her golden hair slides off her shoulder when she turns my way. “You’re kind of a kinky bastard, aren’t you?”
“You have no idea. But don’t worry—you will.” I seal the promise with a kiss on her cheek. Then I hold her blouse while she slides her arms in.
“How are you feeling, champ?” I ask.
I’ve seen firsthand over the last weeks that Kennedy is stellar at compartmentalizing. Burying any pesky emotions like fear or doubt way down deep during the day. But at night, when we’re alone, that’s when the demons creep from their crypt and tell her that she’s bound to fail—or worse. And I’m grateful to be here—to be the man who gets to hold her when she trembles, the one she whispers those worries to, the one who helps her shoulder that burden.
She’ll never have to do it alone again.
“I’m good.” She grins back, and the gleam in her eye tells me that’s true.
I drop a peck on her nose and button her blouse, because the cast makes that difficult too. But as I look at the remnants of her injuries—still visible through her light makeup—it hits me. I turn her head, checking out the yellowish bruising in different lights.
“What’s wrong?”
“The defense is going to ask the judge to recuse you because of the bruises, the cast. They’ll say you’ll prejudice the jury.”
She frowns. “You think so?”
“It’s what I’d do.” I shrug.
Kennedy nods her head slowly, gazing at the carpet—seeing the potential exchange play out behind her eyes. “Okay. Then I’ll be ready to argue that motion.”
“Yeah,” I kiss her forehead now. “You will be.”
• • •
Kennedy walks into court like a general. The way I imagine Joan of Arc walked onto the battlefield—just daring the English to bring it on. I sit in the front row of the gallery, right behind her. Next to me is Connor Roth, the green-eyed, stone-faced marshal who took me up to her hospital room. He’s been by her side ever since.
While she speaks in hushed tones to the other prosecutors at the table, I check out Moriotti, on the opposite side of the courtroom, next to his own team of attorneys. He’s in his forties, short but stocky—powerful—with black, slicked hair that’s just starting to gray at the temples. He looks like a typical scumbag, even dressed up in an Italian suit, which I know at a glance cost him the average person’s mortgage payment. He follows Kennedy with his eyes, and when he notices the cast on her arm—the fucker laughs.
Rage shoots through my bloodstream like a speeding bullet, making me careless—thoughtless. I start to rise from my seat, intent on walking over there and ripping the motherfucker’s head off with my bare hands. And I pity the bailiff who gets in my way.
A strong grip on my shoulder holds me back.
“Don’t do it, Batman,” Roth murmurs. “Getting thrown out of court and locked up before the trial even starts won’t do your girl any favors.”
His words pull me from my gory fantasies, because he’s right. It sucks—but he’s right.
• • •
Three days later, I tell Kennedy I won’t be in court that afternoon. When worry shadows her face, I’m quick to explain I have some of my own work to catch up on. It’s a lie—Jake is awesome at holding down the fort, and even on maternity leave, Stanton has been picking up my slack from home. But it’s just a little lie—the good kind.
Because if she knew where I was really going, that shadow of concern would turn into a full-blown eclipse.
• • •
The modern-day Mafioso is very different from the olden days of Al Capone, fedora hats, and Tommy guns hidden in violin cases. The Sopranos got it pretty right. If you didn’t already know it, you’d never suspect that Carmine Bianco—the seventy-year-old, dark-haired, leather-faced guy in the back corner table of this neighborhood deli—is the supreme leader of a ruthless, multimillion-dollar criminal organization that the feds have been trying for two decades to pin a RICO charge on. He looks like somebody’s grandpa, or an old benevolent uncle.
Except for the two massive bastards standing behind him—with gun belts strapped beneath their jackets.
We’re the only customers in the deli, so when one of the big guys steps up to me a few feet short of the table, I automatically hold out my arms and he pats me down—checking for weapons or a wire. My whole life, people have commented on my youthful face, my boyish good looks, and have underestimated me because of them. I press that advantage now, and give Carmine an affable smile as I sit down across from him.
“Mr. Bianco, I’m Brent Mason. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”
He puts his overflowing sandwich down and chews his mouthful, swiping a napkin across his lips with thick fingers. “You want a sandwich?”
I shake my head. “I’m good, thanks.”
His eyes are sharp, gleaming like a switchblade as he takes me in—my gray suit, loosened tie, Rolex watch. “I don’t know you. I don’t know how you know me—but my money guy said I should meet with you, so here we are. What can you do for me, kid?”
His business advisor is an associate of an associate of one of my family’s longtime brokers. So I made a few calls—because it doesn’t matter if you’re a mobster or a prince: money always talks.
