Chapter 5
Chapter Five
Luca
The revolving door of the Atlantic County Prosecutor’s Office spits us into bright marble and cold air that smells like lemon cleaner and burnt coffee. Flags to one side, reception dead ahead, security standing at attention. The kind of lobby that just feels like paperwork and red tape.
We move as a unit—Roberto leading the way with his briefcase, followed by Caterina and me.
I clock the guards immediately. The ones in uniform. And the ones not in uniform. One pretending to study the directory posted on the wall. Another sitting in a chair in the waiting area. Another two talking to each other while walking toward the elevators.
She’s already here.
Waiting just past security, watching us. No smile, no frown, no tells. The non-expression of a woman trained in reading them.
Elena Pennino.
There’s another woman with her. Suit like Elena’s, but the stance is wrong for a lawyer—weight balanced, hands free, eyes doing a subtle sweep. A cop.
I’m almost amused. Almost.
Do they think we’re going to make a scene right here in reception?
“IDs,” the security guard says. She doesn’t lift her head to see if we comply; the tone assumes it. “Empty your pockets. Belts and watches in the tray.”
We do the dance. Roberto unbuckles, sets his briefcase on the belt. Caterina slides her handbag behind it. I drop my phone, money clip, and watch into the gray bin. The guard waves me through, and the arch stays quiet. Another guard checks anyway with a wand.
Beyond the checkpoint, Elena’s gaze stays steadily on us. I try to read it; I get nothing.
The woman beside her never looks straight at us. She takes in angles, distances, positions of hands. Her jacket sits right over a holster line that a more careful tailor would have flashed.
Caterina doesn’t tug my sleeve, doesn’t lean toward me, doesn’t do any of the things nervous people do. But I know my blood. Her pulse may be jumping, but she’s ready. Discipline is the difference between fear and trembling. She has the first. I won’t let her have the second.
We clear. The guard slides one visitor sticker across the counter.
Roberto opens his mouth, and I can hear the argument assemble: counsel’s right to be present, interview versus advisement, optics, public building.
But I know it’s all for show. Roberto already made it very clear to both Caterina and me that they likely wouldn’t allow him in. He can’t represent both Caterina and me in this.
He already schooled Caterina on what to do, what to say. And what not to say.
Let them think they’re a step ahead. It costs us nothing.
But we’re not the only ones playing games, it seems. They knew very well that they wouldn’t be letting anyone but Caterina in, so making Roberto and me go through security was intentional.
There’s a tension around the room that men like me notice. Shoulders lift. Weight shifts. Eyes avert.
It pleases me that they’d go through the trouble. Eleven years in prison, and my reputation hasn’t suffered a single step back.
Elena starts toward us, the cop in step next to her. Her suit today is charcoal and fits just as well as the previous one. Her dark hair is down, not in a courtroom bun, but still neat and professional. Good leather on the shoes, no vanity. The watch at her wrist is small and functional, not showy.
Professional and efficient.
That same feeling hits me again, low in my gut, some stiffening in my pants.
Not because she’s acting in any particular way, not because she’s dressed inappropriately, not even because she’s being flirty.
She isn’t. She just is. Because she’s a problem I would love to solve if we weren’t who we were, sitting on opposite sides of the table.
I tamp it down. Control is managing what I’m feeling, my desires. I’ve spent eleven years refining my control into a blade.
But it’s not working. My desire is a live wire under the skin. Itchy, irritating. Tempting.
“Ms. Conti,” she says, as if we’ve all been speaking already and she’s simply catching us up. “Good afternoon. This is Investigator Chen. She’ll be sitting in to witness and document the protective-order advisement.”
The investigator nods once. “Ms. Conti,” she says to Caterina, but doesn’t say anything else or acknowledge anyone else.
Elena looks at Roberto. “Mr. Conti.”
“Ms. Pennino,” Roberto replies in his Sunday voice. He could preach a congregation into singing with that tone. “I need a pass as well. I’ll be joining my client.”
“Not for this,” she says. “Caterina is welcome to an attorney, but it cannot be you. This is merely a protective order advisement, not an interview. The order contemplates direct advisement to the potential witness alone. We’ll be quick.”
Roberto looks like he’s going to protest for a moment, but decides against it and just nods.
All part of the tactic to make it seem like he doesn’t know as much as he really does. Make them underestimate us.
She turns to me last and gives me exactly the amount of acknowledgment a woman in her position should give a man in mine: a polite nod. “Mr. Conti.”
“Counselor,” I say. Mild. Nothing more. I keep my hands out of my pockets because men put their hands in their pockets when they want to look harmless. I don’t do theater.
Up close, her eyes are as dangerous as they were yesterday. That deep blue that looks like it can see right through me. She holds mine for one beat and moves on. It surprises me again, the impact of her presence. The effect it has on me.
Put it in a box, Luca. This isn’t the time, the place, or the person.
But it’s not as easy as that. I haven’t had to try very hard, or at all, to shove my attraction into a box in a long time. I have to. So I do.
The lid on that box does not fit very well.
“Ms. Conti,” Elena says, turning back to my daughter and breaking whatever it is we had between us. “We’ll go upstairs to the conference room. We’ll go over the order, make sure you understand boundaries, answer questions, and you’ll be out of here.”
Caterina nods. “Fine.”
Her voice is steady, like she doesn’t have a care in the world. She doesn’t look at me. She doesn’t have to. She knows I’m right where I said I would be.
That’s what being blood means.
Elena throws one last line over her shoulder. “We won’t be long, but if you’re looking for somewhere more comfortable to wait, the coffee shop across the street makes a pretty good latte.”
Elena gestures Caterina ahead of her. Chen takes the flank. A guard at the elevator taps a code into the pad on the wall, and the doors open.
Caterina gives me the smallest glance back before turning and walking into the elevator, exuding confidence.
I turn back to Roberto, amused. “Shall we go get a ‘pretty good latte’?”
Roberto laughs. “Yeah, let’s go see what Miss Counselor considers good.”
The bell over the café door gives a little ring. Warm air greets us, and the smell of espresso, vanilla, sugary confections wafts around us. Big windows open onto the street and give us a perfect view of the prosecutor’s office.
We join the line. Roberto slips the briefcase to his left hand so his right is free, the reflex of a man who’s used to shaking hands. I shift so I can see both doors—the one in the front and the one next to the restrooms on the back wall.
There are four people ahead of us: a contractor in neon stripes, a kid with the eyes of someone in the middle of exam week, and a man I clock as a public defender.
A woman in scrubs, balancing five coffee cups, walks away from the counter.
Behind the counter is a girl in her early twenties with a blond ponytail and a name tag that says LEXI in cheerful ink. She’s reading names off the cup cheerfully, which tells me she hasn’t been doing this job that long.
Unlike the boy behind the counter pouring drinks into cups like he’d rather be anywhere else.
Finally, our turn.
Lexi smiles and straightens her shoulders. “Hi! What can I get started for you?”
“Double espresso,” Roberto says. “To go.”
She nods, taps the screen, looks to me. Up close, I can see the faint furrow of a pimple she covered with powder. God, she’s so young and earnest. Was I ever that young and innocent?
Probably not.
“Black coffee and a caramel macchiato,” I say, ordering for Caterina as well. “And—” I tip my head toward the window where the prosecutor’s office sits. “You get folks from the building across the street in here a lot?”
Roberto’s foot nudges mine. A warning. He doesn’t even bother turning, but I know he’s telling me: Don’t.
I ignore him. I’ll ignore good advice when the cost is small and the return is information.
“All the time,” Lexi says, bright, delighted to have a question she can answer without looking at the screen. “They’re like half our business, honestly.” She leans a little like she’s letting me in on a secret everyone knows. “Mornings are wild.”
I smile back, the version that shows teeth without threatening. “Maybe you can help me out?”
Roberto’s exhale ghosts across his teeth. “Luca.”
I keep going. “There’s a new prosecutor. Dark hair, a bit tall, blue eyes.”
Of course I did my research on her. I would be stupid not to.
Lexi lights up like I flipped a switch. “Oh! Yeah, I know her.” She grins, the real kind that touches the eyes. “She’s nice. Always nice and says thank you, even when she’s in a rush.” She tilts her head, thinking. “I don’t really know her name, though.”
“That’s all right. I just want to take something over for her. What does she usually order?” I ask, casually. People want to be helpful. It makes them feel like they belong to the story.
Lexi doesn’t even blink. “Large latte with two shots,” she says, obviously happy she can help. “Sometimes iced if it’s hot out.”
Roberto’s sigh this time carries a little more weight, but he keeps his face neutral.
“Add one of those as well,” I say to Lexi, and add a wink because it costs me nothing, and it amuses me the way color climbs into her cheeks. “All to go.”
She taps, blushes, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear that didn’t need tucking. “Name?”
“Derek. Charlie,” I say, pointing at Roberto. “The macchiato is Kate, and… Panini on the latte.”
Roberto groans.
The girl’s marker pauses, and she furrows her brow. “Panini?”
“Yes,” I assure her.
She continues writing and turns away.
Roberto angles his body to shield a look between us. “What are you doing?” The words are whisper-soft.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just giving the good prosecutor an afternoon pick-me-up.”
“With stupid puns?” he says. “Eleven years, and he comes out doing dad jokes. Ma che cazzo!”
I smile lazily. “I couldn’t resist. It’s a cute name, huh? Makes me hungry every time I hear it.”
He gives me the long-suffering face that says he expects better and that I should know better. “Luca, please. I beg you. Do not mess with this prosecutor. She’s not a weak point.”
“I know she isn’t,” I say and grab a sugar packet to flip between my fingers as we step to the pickup area. “But her routine is.”
“One joke is cute. Make a habit of it, and it’s a problem.” Roberto keeps his voice low.
“It’s a coffee, Roberto,” I say dryly. “Hell, it’s not even that, not really. It’s a latte.”
“It’s a tell,” he corrects.
I let that one go. No point arguing what he’s already set his mind on.
Behind the counter, the guy calls out Derek, Charlie, and Kate.
He looks at the writing on the side of the cup with a confused look on his face. “Panini?”
He sets all four cups on the counter and slides them down.
“Thank you,” Roberto says as he steps forward with a charming smile.
I press a crisp bill into the tip jar and wink at Lexi, who blushes again.
“Done?” Roberto asks dryly.
“I am,” I say and walk ahead of him with two drinks in my hand.