Chapter 18
ROMERO
The first appearance for the Eric Turner case is just before lunch, and I’m already mentally calculating how long it will take me to get to the restaurant Julian sent me this morning.
God, what a day ahead of me. Lunch with him—which I’m not looking forward to—then a string of other meetings, and finally dinner with my brothers tonight.
Perhaps I shouldn’t have pushed my first meeting back to go see my future in-laws.
As Logan pulls up in front of the courthouse, my phone buzzes with a text from Leni.
My heart does this stupid little jerk as I remember her bright expression when she waved me off this morning.
The way she stood in the doorway, sunlight catching her hair, looking like she actually wanted me to come home to her.
It was surprising as hell, but I liked it. I might like it too much.
I already know what she’s texting about before I unlock my phone and scroll to our thread. A few seconds ago, security at home notified me that her brother showed up, and I gave the green light.
CHARLENE
Heyy, we have a guard at the gates? I didn’t know.
The guards at my house are highly trained professionals, and blending into the background is their specialty. Invisible until they need to be visible. That way, any unwelcome visitors get caught completely off guard. I put my phone on silent after replying and slip it into my pocket.
A dark Rolls Royce pulls in next to me as I step out.
Eric emerges looking every inch the part in a crisp navy button-down shirt, black pants, and oversized sunglasses hiding whatever’s really going on behind those eyes.
His lips are turned down just enough to suggest barely contained grief, expression tight with what could be mistaken for shock.
“What do you think?” he asks.
Last night, I’d texted him—and his father, just in case the kid was too dense to listen—about what to wear, and how to carry himself in the courtroom.
“You’ll do,” I answer curtly, and we head into the New York County Criminal Court together. Time to put on a show.
The courthouse hits me with its familiar cocktail of burnt coffee and pure, distilled nerves. You can practically taste the desperation in the air. We breeze through security without so much as a glance. The guard at the scanner nods at me—he knows my face. Half the people here do.
My lips curl up, shoulders relaxing as we walk towards the elevators. I spend so much time in here, it almost feels like a second home. This is as much my turf as the underground world of Brooklyn, maybe even more. Here, I’m not just a criminal’s brother. I’m a fucking artist.
We exit the elevator on the third floor, which is packed with the usual chaos: lawyers pacing while barking into phones, court officers calling names with all the enthusiasm of funeral directors, defendants in ill-fitting suits flanked by anxious parents and tired public defenders who’ve already given up.
The standard mix of human misery and legal theater.
We slip past them all towards Courtroom 15, where Eric’s hearing will take place. I glance at the kid—he’s wearing his best ‘who, me?’ expression. Academy Award-worthy performance right there. He certainly brought his A-game today.
Outside Room 15, Janice, a young Assistant District Attorney I’ve run into a few times over the past few months, gives Eric and me a quick once-over, her face souring like she just bit into something rotten.
I flash her my most charming smile. She doesn’t return it, which makes me chuckle.
Janice doesn’t like me and never bothers to hide it.
I can respect that kind of honesty in an opponent.
At least she’s not pretending to play nice.
“Still defending the criminals, I see,” the ADA mutters.
“Just defending the Constitution, Janice.”
She rolls her eyes and steps inside the courtroom without another word. Eric and I trail after her, my gaze sweeping the half-full room, catching on the court stenographer as she readies her keys.
We make our way to the front and take our seats at the defense table.
“Let’s make this quick,” Ethan says under his breath, his focus locked on the empty judge’s bench.
“Play it right and it will be quick,” I reply. He flashes me a small smile, like we’re in on some private joke. Then, as fast as it appeared, it’s gone, replaced by that perfect mask of confused innocence.
The door behind the bench opens, and everyone rises as Judge Harlan Davidson makes his entrance, moving with the deliberate pace of someone who knows he owns the room.
He surveys the courtroom, looking thoroughly unimpressed with the lot of us. A highly intelligent and traditional man, Harlan doesn’t tolerate bullshit—but he doesn’t ask too many questions either. Which makes him my kind of judge.
He settles onto his bench and instructs the clerk to call the case.
“People of the State of New York versus Eric Turner. Docket number 2023-403. One count of murder in the second degree.”
The judge flips through the file in front of him.
It’s thin since the few scraps of evidence against Eric are purely circumstantial.
No weapon, no prints, no eyewitness. Sure, there are a few gaps in the timeline, but the kid has a rock-solid alibi with multiple witnesses who place him there during the estimated time of the victim’s death.
Harlan peers at Eric over the rim of his glasses. “Mr. Turner, you’ve been charged with murder in the second degree. How do you plead?”
Eric faces the bench, his voice strong and clear. “Not guilty, your honor.” Beautiful delivery—exactly as I coached him. Calm, respectful, with just enough bewilderment, like the very idea that he could commit such an act is too shocking to comprehend.
The kid is good.
The judge nods, making his notation.
Janice springs to her feet, bristling with an anger that doesn’t feel manufactured. She seems hell-bent on nailing Eric, and I frown as I watch her go through the motions.
She starts with motive: Hank’s girlfriend—the woman who caused the issue between Eric and Hank—said Hank told her Eric wasn’t happy with him for some unspecified reason just days before his death, and that he had something important to tell her.
Then opportunity: Eric had approved guest access to Hank’s apartment and could walk right in without being stopped by the security guard.
Finally, inconsistencies: a security guard initially claimed he saw Eric heading up to Hank’s apartment an hour before he died, but when no footage surfaced to back up his story, he retracted his statement.
Poor Janice. She’s hitting all the right notes, but she has no idea what she’s up against. Not really. Not the way I do. So nothing she throws at the wall is going to stick, no matter how hard she tries.
“Mr. Turner had a personal connection to the victim, which raises serious concerns about intent,” she continues, eyeing Eric like she knows he did it and just needs to prove it. She’s welcome to try.
Then she pivots, pushing for stricter bail conditions, bringing up his upcoming birthday and how he ‘never celebrates it in the city’. “We’re looking at a potential flight risk, your honor.”
I let her finish her spiel before speaking.
“Your honor, Mr. Turner has been out on bail for over a week. No violations, no incidents. He’s been punctual for every check-in, fully cooperative with all requirements.
He knows he has to remain in the city until this case is over. He’s not a flight risk.”
Harlan holds my gaze for a moment, then shifts his attention to Janice. “No changes to bail. We’ll proceed under the current terms. Next appearance in two weeks. Discovery deadlines as discussed.” The gavel comes down with finality.
Clean, efficient—I check my watch—and right on time.
Eric smooths his cuffs as we step into the hallway, every bit the innocent college kid accused of something unthinkable. His expression is relaxed. “That went well. Think I should start practicing my Oscar speech?”
Cocky little shit. “Save it. We’re just getting started.” This was merely the opening act. The real performance hasn’t even begun.
The kid has to jog to keep up as I head for the elevators. “Think I’ll walk free?”
He’s fishing for reassurance. I give him a cool stare as I press the elevator’s call button. “I’ve gotten worse than you acquitted.” Hardened criminals with actual blood on their hands—not so different from my brothers and me. Men who go on to keep committing crimes, just in a smarter way.
“The rules still stand,” I tell him as we step out of the elevator on the first floor and walk out of the courthouse. “No birthday parties, no going out. Not until this case is over.”
He grumbles but doesn’t argue. Good.
I give him one last nod before sliding into my car. Almost time for my lunch meeting with Senator Julian Demarco.
During the drive to the restaurant, I receive a text from Sandro.
SANDRO
Remember when you said something was fishy about the records for the medications in the warehouse? Well, it looks like you have a thief.
I shake my head as I read the words, fingers tightening around my phone. Don’t these fools learn anything? Some idiots tried the exact same thing last year in Michael’s territory and died gruesome deaths. They think I’ll let it slide because I’m considered the more easygoing one in our group?
They’re wrong.
Find the culprit. Quickly.
The host guides me through the crowded downtown restaurant towards the window table where Julian is already waiting. He beat me here by mere minutes.
But as we round a corner and he comes into view, my stomach dips. He’s not alone. Sitting next to him, looking prim and proper, is his daughter—what was her name again?
“Romero!” Julian waves enthusiastically, spotting me at the same moment I see them. I shift my gaze from his daughter to level a frown at him.
“I was under the impression this meeting was strictly business, Julian,” I say as I take the seat across from them, not bothering to hide my displeasure.
He chuckles, either oblivious to my mood or choosing to ignore it entirely. “It is. My Ari knows everything about my business. I want her to follow in my footsteps, you see.” He leans over to whisper the last part as if he’s sharing state secrets.
I’m not amused. Not even close.
“By the way, I got the calls from your brothers. Great work, my man.” He signals for a waiter. “I can’t wait until we’re all one big family—in every sense of the word.” He gives me a loaded look before glancing meaningfully at Arianna.
“I got engaged last night.” I know it’s all over the tabloids by now. That’s precisely why I chose to propose publicly, and why I tipped off that reporter to show up at the River Café for ‘breaking news’. All to make one thing crystal clear: I’m taken.
“Bah.” Julian waves a dismissive hand. “That means nothing when—” His phone interrupts, cutting off whatever garbage he was about to spout. Lucky for him, because I’m rapidly losing my patience with his condescending attitude. My engagement means nothing? Go to hell.
“Excuse me.” He pushes back from the table, lifting his phone to his ear. “Talk to me, Yaris.”
I fix the girl with a steady look, inhaling deeply while reminding myself that her father’s greed and delusions aren’t her fault.
There’s no need for me to take my anger out on her.
Then she leans forward across the table, much like Julian did earlier, the low cut of her blouse revealing just enough to make the tops of her breasts almost spill out.
My lips curl in disgust as I meet her blue eyes—cold, manipulative blue that feels wrong after looking into Leni’s warm slate gray. “Really?”
She blinks at me and leans back, feigning innocence. “What?”
I raise a brow, letting my incredulity show. “I thought you might have been an unwilling pawn in all this. But you're not, are you?”
For a moment her mask slips, revealing the real Arianna and the calculating mind underneath.
“I’ve been groomed my whole life for a marriage that would benefit my father’s interests.
And sooner or later, it will happen.” She shrugs like we’re discussing nothing more than the weather.
“You’re not an ugly man, Romero. I’d be crazy not to want it to be you.
” A playful wink follows as her hand slides over mine on the table.
Revulsion crawls up my spine and I yank my hand out from hers immediately, my skin feeling contaminated by her touch. “Too bad nothing will ever happen between us. I’m a happily engaged man.” I get to my feet, adjusting the lapels of my jacket with sharp, angry movements.
Julian chooses that exact moment to walk back in, practically jogging towards me with obvious panic in his brown eyes. “Where are you going? We haven’t even ordered yet.”
“It’s time to put an end to this charade, Julian,” I state impatiently. “You want my brothers’ backing, and you’ll get it—in exchange for the information you promised. Right now. Where is Katie Pierce?”
He looks down, actually appearing ashamed for a moment. “I have my best investigators searching for her. In fact, I just received an update from one of them.” He looks up, brandishing his phone. “They’ll find her soon and–”
“Fuck.” I shake my head, disgusted that I let him jerk me around for so long. “Enough of this, Julian. Don’t contact me again unless you have concrete information I can use.”
“But what about my daughter? Ari is—”
I’m already walking away, not needing to hear another word of his bullshit. I have real work to do, actual problems that need solving. And a fiancée to get home to.