Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Elena
I’m two sips into a coffee I don’t taste because my tongue is burnt when my phone buzzes: Boss wants you now. No greeting, no emoji, just the message from his assistant, Mara, the woman who runs the floor like air traffic control.
I’ve just arrived and am still shrugging out of my coat when I sigh. I drop it on the chair and grab my coffee and my file—because I already know what this is about—and head out.
His door’s already open. That’s the tell—when Miles Hart wants to see you immediately, there’s no time to waste on the door. I smooth my blouse and walk right in when Mara waves me on.
“Morning, Pennino,” he says, and it’s friendly in that effortless way he has, the way a calm ocean can decide to pull you under in an instant. “Close the door, would you?”
“Morning,” I say, and do.
Miles doesn’t look like a shark until you’ve seen him in a courtroom. In here, he looks like everyone’s favorite professor—salt-and-pepper hair neatly trimmed, reading glasses on a cord. His tie is navy and knotted neatly.
The desk is a contradiction: piles of files that should look chaotic but somehow don’t, a yellow legal pad with a list that never seems to get shorter, a single frame turned toward him—two teenagers on a dock. His kids, who now have their own families.
Thirty years of this work hang on him well.
I admire him, which is dangerous. Admiration can turn into permission to relax. I can’t afford to relax.
“Sit,” he says, and gestures to a chair in front of his desk.
He steeples his fingers and watches me for a beat like he’s reading a deposition I haven’t given yet. “How’s your morning?”
“Early,” I say, because he appreciates economy. “And productive.”
The corner of his mouth moves. “That’s your brand. Let’s talk about yesterday’s order.” He flips a page on his pad.
“Release granted. Twice-weekly reporting. Passport surrendered. Monitoring to be installed. No contact with co-defendants, witnesses, or victims. Anything I missed?”
“Judge added the travel restriction,” I say. “No leaving the city without prior approval. It gives Pretrial leverage.”
“It gives us a tripwire,” he corrects, not unkindly. “How did he look?”
I expected the question. He means Conti, and he means more than appearance. I run it clean.
“Controlled. Present but not performative. Minimal affect. He let his brother do the talking, which played well with this judge. The kids flanked him—all three behind him.”
Miles makes a note. “Good. And you.”
“Kept it to the record,” I say. “Pushed for heightened supervision. Held the proffer line when Roberto tried to smear with rumor. Judge didn’t bite either way.”
“He seldom does once he’s decided.” Miles leans back. “You’re not wrong to have pushed. You’re not wrong to have lost. It’s the first inning.” He taps the pad with the back of his pen. “What’s your next pitch?”
I don’t need to look at my notes. “Pretrial first. I want eyes on the install—device, compliance, and the exact language of the monitoring agreement. I want a contact there who calls me if he breathes too close to a line. Not the day after. In the moment.”
“Name someone,” he says.
“Mason or Diaz,” I say. “Mason knows the field guys and doesn’t mind being unpopular. Diaz will call me instead of sending an email. Mason is my first pick.”
“Take Mason,” Miles says, writing it. “What else?”
“Lucia Dixon,” I say and leave it at that.
“Absent yesterday, I presume,” Miles says. At my nod, he continues, “What do you intend to do?”
“She’s a factor whether she’s in the room or not,” I say.
“But I don’t want to make contact just yet.
She isn’t a witness I want to spook, and we can’t compel her to cooperate.
She has to raise her hand. If Nick Dixon’s shadow is anywhere near this, the ethics get ugly fast. I’m documenting everything that touches that acquisition.
It’s not the case in front of us, but shadows matter. ”
“They do,” he says. “Dixon purchasing the prison complicates things. It could be used for us or against us, depending on Lucia.”
“I intend on making it work for us,” I say with certainty.
“What about inter-agency?” Miles flips a page in the file in front of him.
“I’ll loop FBI and IRS-CI,” I say. “Keep the footprint tight. We don’t need a parade. We need competence and discretion.
“You’ll get it,” he says. “I’ll make the calls on that one to ensure it.”
He scratches another note, then looks up, and I know we’ve moved on.
“Do you want your other cases reassigned?” he asks. “Just until this takes shape. No shame in triage. This is going to be… consuming.”
There it is, the question I knew was coming but never wanted to be asked.
I sit up straighter. “I can handle it,” I say.
“I have a suppression hearing set for next Thursday, and I’ve already drafted the response.
Fraud case in discovery; it’s document-heavy but straightforward.
The racketeering case we inherited from Tom?
Status conference only; I can push a month with defense consent. I won’t let anything slip.”
He doesn’t nod. He watches, weighing not just my words but the way they were delivered.
“I know your reputation, Pennino,” he says finally.
“It’s why I asked for you. But reputation can’t hold up to physical limitations.
Time is working against us, and I can’t have you fading halfway through this.
You’re not less capable if you say ‘park these two for sixty days.’”
“I hear you,” I say. “The moment I feel the edges fray, I’ll come to you and we’ll reassign. You have my word. I don’t gamble with cases, especially not this one.”
Miles lets that hang, then breathes out through his nose, a soft, satisfied sound. “All right,” he says. “I’m holding you to it.” He glances at the glass wall and then back. “Yesterday. Conti. How did it sit with you?”
My first thought is the thing I felt that passed between us like a live wire. God help me.
But then I realize how ridiculous that is. He’s not talking about attraction between a man and a woman. He’s talking about the interaction between a prosecutor and the criminal I’m trying to keep in prison.
“We didn’t have much contact. He clocked me,” I say. “Then he put it away.”
“Good,” Miles says. “Keep it away. He controls with fear. Don’t let it get to you.”
I nod. “Noted.”
He slides a small stack of papers to me.
“Memos from Pretrial, Probation, and the Marshals. Morning updates. Read them and call Mason. I want a single sheet by close of business that lists every enforceable condition, the monitoring calendar, and our escalation path for violations. No legal poetry. Bullets.”
“Done,” I say.
He caps his pen and leans back, eyes on the ceiling like he’s reading something up there only he can see.
“Three decades,” he says softly, almost to himself.
“You learn that the most dangerous days are the first three after release. Pride walks, old loyalties want proof, and the quiet is a cover for something awful and terrifying. He’ll over-correct or under-correct.
You make sure we catch whichever one it is. ”
“Yes, sir,” I say.
He glances at the clock. “One more thing. Press is circling. You will not brief. You will not comment. If anyone sticks a microphone in your face on your way to lunch, you say ‘no comment’ and keep walking. Roberto will try to fight this battle out of the courtroom. We don’t.”
“We don’t,” I echo.
“And Pennino.” He leans forward and pins me with a look. “Elena. Luca Conti is a dangerous man.”
I clear my throat. “I kn—"
“He knows who you are, and he knows what you’re trying to do.
” Miles’ voice drops. “Do not let your guard down. If you think, even suspect, for one second, that something isn’t right, that you might have a target on your back…
do not hesitate. Do not keep it to yourself.
Do not say that you can handle it. Men like him kill the same way you and I flip the bird. Clear?”
His gaze doesn’t falter, just stays trained on me, and I see now exactly how a witness could feel with him staring them down like that. I resist the urge to swallow and shrink in my spot.
“Crystal,” I say. My voice doesn’t wobble.
“I’m not playing hero. I’ll loop in Threat Management for a baseline assessment and get on their radar, have them flag any chatter that touches my name.
I’ll vary my commute, stick to the garage entrance, and stop walking home just because the weather’s nice. ”
Miles gives one sharp nod, like he’s checking boxes in his head. “Good. I’ll have the Marshals run a quick protective sweep of your building and this floor. Don’t argue—let them do their theater.”
“Not arguing,” I say. “I’ll also have Facilities swap my nameplate for a generic title and remove my last name from the lobby directory. Low profile.”
“Already did the lobby, but smart on the nameplate.” He taps the memos with a knuckle. “And for any face-to-face with the Conti kids, you bring a second chair.”
“I was going to pull Investigator Chen,” I say. “She’s calm, won’t cave to pressure.”
“Perfect. She’ll think of angles you won’t.” He sits forward. “When?”
“I’ve got them staggered over the next couple of days—Caterina is today at 3:00, Nico tomorrow morning at 10:00, and Vito at 3:30. Straight advisement, then out.”
“Don’t take the conference room on this floor. Take the one on the top. A little fancy for this, but we don’t want them wandering your floor and making any mental maps.” He taps a pen on the desk. “And what about Roberto?”
“If he tries to accompany, we cite the order and give him a copy. These are advisements to potential witnesses under a protective regime, not defense interviews. He can wait in reception and complain to a plant.”
A corner of his mouth lifts. “Good. If he gets cute, I’ll be down the hall. We’ll get security to make some extra rounds in reception too.”
I allow myself a quick breath that feels a little like relief. I guess I didn’t realize how uptight I was about it until he brought up the issue of my safety.
“One more thing.” He studies me for a beat. “Personal life.”
“What personal life?” I ask, drily.
“Exactly. Keep it that way for now,” he says. “No routines. No extra people. No taking chances. Especially this week. If you need to get out of your apartment, use the DA’s short-term housing for a few nights. It’s there for a reason.”
“I’ll keep the option open,” I say. “Tonight I’m fine. Doors locked, shades down, phone on loud.”
“And the gym?”
“Office gym only,” I say. “No neighborhood runs until Threat Management gives me a green light.”
He leans back, satisfied. “Good.” He closes the file, which in this office is the signal that the meeting is over.
He grabs a Post-it, writes something on it, and slides it across the desk.
On it: 11:50—eat.
“Court-ordered lunch?” I ask.
“Boss-ordered,” he says. “You’re no good to me if you’re sick.”
“Copy that.”