Chapter 5
ROMERO
Client interviews are perhaps my least favorite part of being a defense attorney.
These motherfuckers always think spinning lies is going to impress me.
Newsflash: it doesn’t. I don’t usually give a shit whether they’re innocent or guilty.
What I do give a shit about, massively, is whether they’re honest with me, because that’s what determines if my work is going to be a smooth ride or a complete clusterfuck.
“I really didn’t do it,” Eric says, tapping his Oxford heels against my floor, looking guilty as hell. “Yes, we had an argument and I slapped him, which made him fall—but he was still breathing when I left his apartment. I swear. Then I went to the bar to relax and clear my head.”
My lips press into a thin line. “You’re a terrible liar, Mr. Turner. If you pull this amateur performance in front of the judge, you’re going to get slammed with the harshest sentence possible for murder.”
“You don’t believe me?” The fucker has the audacity to glare at me. “How will the judge believe me when even my own lawyer doesn’t?”
I push back from my chair and round the desk, watching him swallow hard and lean back instinctively as I perch on the edge, close enough that he can probably smell my cologne.
Close enough to make him sweat. “My job isn’t to believe your story or not.
Quite frankly, I don’t care if you did it or not, kid.
I’m here to get you little to no punishment.
But for that to work, you have to be completely honest with me.
” I lean in just a little. “I need the truth. All of it. No lies, no edits. If I don’t know what really happened, I can’t protect you.
And if I can’t protect you, you might rot in a cell for the rest of your pathetic life.
” Then I straighten, just slightly. “Now, shall we start over?”
He nods rapidly. “Yes.”
Better. Much better.
“Tell me about your relationship with the victim. Where did you meet him? How did your friendship develop? Then you can tell me in excruciating detail everything that happened the night he died. Nothing is irrelevant. What you think might not be important could be the very key I need to save your sorry ass. Do you understand?”
Another frantic nod. “Yes, sir. Hank and I met freshman year in college. He was a cute guy, and I could tell he was into me too, even though he was still in the closet like I was. We could just tell, you know? And we clicked instantly.”
Ahh, so they were lovers. Does the prosecution suspect this? Both parties went to great lengths to keep their sexuality hidden, so that must be the last thing on their radar. Still, I’ll need to check and make sure they’re not sniffing around that angle.
I wave at him to keep going.
“We were together for two years, and no one ever suspected. But then last summer, he started dating this girl. I was dating a girl too, but he was really serious about this particular one. He wouldn’t tell me anything about her, which was weird—we always shared details about our fake relationships.
He was pulling away from me and falling for her.
I could tell. We had a lot of arguments, and last week, he said he wanted to break up.
He wanted to break up with me, not her. Said he wanted to come clean to her about everything.
Betray me and expose my identity? I couldn’t let that happen. ”
“So you killed him?”
He jerks his head up and shifts in his seat, glancing around my office like the walls might be listening. “Should you ask me that?”
“You need to trust me for me to help you. This office is as private and secure as it gets. Nothing you say leaves this room.”
“Okay, well, I didn’t mean to… hurt him. We had the worst argument of our lives. He said I was being selfish, which was crazy because I’ve never been selfish with him. And one thing led to another, and it just… happened.”
Right. It just happened. Along with erasing the security footage of him going into Hank’s apartment that evening and conveniently establishing an alibi at a bar.
He might not have consciously wanted to kill his lover, but he was proactive enough to think about protecting his freedom.
His head certainly wasn’t crowded with grief.
I study him for a moment, then get up from the desk. “That will be all for today. Go straight home and don’t leave your apartment unless it’s for the court appearance.”
“What? But I have a fraternity party this weekend that I have to go to and—”
“Mr. Turner,” I cut in sharply, “do you understand the gravity of your crime? Someone is dead and every piece of evidence points directly at you.” Because you killed him, you little fucker.
“The detectives who arrested you, the prosecutors—they’re going all in.
They want you locked up for life. Now, I’ll do my job and get you an acquittal, but you also need to do your part.
That means looking like you’re mourning the sudden loss of your friend.
Looking devastated that anyone could even imagine you had anything to do with his death. Do you understand me?”
“Yes,” he grumbles.
“If the prosecutor so much as catches a whiff of you going out to party and have fun, it’s going to make my job extremely difficult,” I stress each word. “And when my job gets difficult, your life gets impossible.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll stay inside until it’s all over. Ugh.”
Spoiled little brat. “Good. You may go.”
He gets to his feet without another word and leaves my office. I sink into my chair with a sigh, and now that I’m alone, the little troublemaker I've been trying to ignore pops right back into my head.
Coppery–gold hair. Storm-gray eyes. Smart mouth.
She hasn’t called me yet. Playing hard to get? Fuck, I can’t believe I didn’t get her name that night. She’s been clogging up my thoughts ever since, and I’m not ashamed to admit I rubbed one out last night hoping it would purge her from my system. No such luck.
Perhaps I should go back to the station and try to pry her name out of those fucking cops.
There’s a short knock and my office door cracks open. Mason, one of the best paralegals on my team, walks in. “You asked me to come in once the client leaves.”
“Yes.” Great timing too. “I need you to get me everything the prosecution has submitted regarding the Eric Turner case, as well as information on the judge presiding over the case.”
Mason salutes. “On it.”
As he turns to leave, my phone rings. Sandro. I groan as I answer, already knowing what he wants to say.
“I hope you haven’t forgotten Senator DeMarco’s campaign dinner this evening,” he says in lieu of a hello.
Sandro isn’t quite my secretary or personal assistant. He’s more like my right-hand man. He oversees everything about my businesses—both the legal and illegal sides—and keeps track of schedules so they don’t overlap.
“How could I?” My tone is dry. “It’s all you’ve talked about for the past week.”
“Because his secretary keeps sending me friendly reminders every damn day. Apparently, the senator wants to introduce you to someone important. I’m betting it’s his daughter. He hasn’t exactly been subtle about wanting you as his son-in-law.”
“Which I’ve already told him won’t happen.” I’m only entertaining him because he’s dangling information about Katherine Pierce’s whereabouts in my face.
But Senator Julian DeMarco is a persistent fucker who thinks that introducing me to his daughter will somehow change my mind—despite already shoving several pictures of her at me against my will.
He’s even tried to make me talk to her on the phone a few times. If she’d been in the States, I’m pretty sure he would’ve just dragged her straight into my office. Though according to my intel, she flew in a few days ago, so I guess my time evading her is officially up.
My brothers and I have been looking for Katie—Emily’s close friend—for a couple of weeks now, ever since she disappeared from the hospital after getting shot because of Emily’s attempt to protect us.
Thanks to her, we found out the former FBI director, Stacey Rodrigues, is a dirty crook using Emily and the Russians to frame us for her crimes.
Katie helped Emily bring the woman down, but both of them got shot in the process—and then Katie vanished.
Julian caught wind of how desperate we are to find her in one piece, and now he’s trying to use that information to broker a deal—a marriage between his only daughter and me to foster a deeper connection for his reelection and future presidential ambitions.
Sure, now that my brothers are all settled into blissful matrimony, I’ll admit I've been thinking of marriage myself. But Katie’s whereabouts are only worth so much. I’m not locking myself into the ball and chain just to find her.
“Just don’t be late,” Sandro says, hanging up.
As if I’m ever late for anything.
I skim through the file I have on Eric, type up some additional details on my laptop, then print them out, organizing them into a folder and tucking it into my briefcase.
Done with that for now, I head home to change for dinner, hoping tonight is the night Julian DeMarco will finally come clean about what he knows regarding Katie.
The moment I step out of my car onto the cobblestone driveway of Julian’s estate, I sigh, bracing myself for yet another performance.
Nothing gets under my skin quite like mingling with the political class.
They’re a different breed of shady—oozing deceit, and their hypocrisy reeks worse than rotting fish.
The mansion is a blatant show of power—a spacious brownstone in the middle of Clinton Hill, with wrought iron gates polished to a high gloss. Two uniformed staff open the wide double doors of the front entrance before I can even reach for the handle, their smiles stretched too tight to be real.
Another uniformed staff member meets me in the grand foyer and silently escorts me towards the back of the house, where the ballroom is already packed. I glance at my watch. Nine on the dot. The event was set to start at nine—did these ass-kissers get here an hour early just to suck up? Typical.
The staffer disappears behind me, shutting the door.
I scan the room, recognizing a few familiar faces—judges, real estate moguls, and even a few high-ranking cops.
All here for a piece of Julian. Every single one of them would sell their mother for a taste of power.
Too bad the judge presiding over Turner’s case isn’t one of them.
That might have made this dinner slightly worth enduring.
Julian is right in the thick of it, chuckling with a group of people, a tumbler of whiskey in his hand, navy suit tailored to him. The ostentatious gold cufflinks that have become his signature flash with every sweep of his arm as he gestures animatedly.
His eyes catch mine, and just like that, he lights up like he’s spotted his golden ticket. He raises his glass in my direction with a smug little head tilt. A silent invitation. Here we go.
I weave through the crowd, sidestepping waiters in impeccable black uniforms gliding across the room, silver trays balanced effortlessly, offering champagne and hors d'oeuvres.
“You made it,” Julian grins, shaking my hand when I reach him.
“Of course. I wouldn’t miss it.” I return the smile, the one I’ve perfected for nights like this, already scanning the vaguely familiar faces gathered around him.
“You remember Remington, don’t you? He was the judge on that case you won last month.” Julian gestures towards an older man with salt-and-pepper hair, and my gaze sharpens even as I resist the urge to remind him I haven’t lost a case in almost a decade.
“You were quite ruthless as usual, Romero. You impressed me,” Remington says, extending a hand.
I chuckle politely as I shake his hand, flipping through the stack of cases I won last month, trying to place him. “A real pleasure to meet again like this.” Then it clicks—State v. Kyla. The abused wife whose deadbeat husband’s body turned up in the Hudson.
I’m about to say more when a flash of copper yanks my attention across the room.
There she is—my mystery woman—gliding through the crowd like a damn mirage, tray of hors d'oeuvres in hand.
She’s a waitress?