Chapter Twenty-Four
Gabriel
John Portman called at seven-thirty the next morning.
I was in the kitchen, watching Cate make pancakes while Megan sat at the counter drawing pictures of “our family”—stick figures that included a dog we didn’t have and what appeared to be a dragon.
“Gabriel.” John’s voice was tight. Clipped. “We need to talk.”
I stepped into the hallway, closing the kitchen door behind me. “What’s wrong?”
“Richard Castellano.”
The name alone made my jaw tighten. Tonya’s husband. The man who’d sat in my living room three days ago, taking notes while his wife tried to take my daughter.
“What about him?”
“He’s not just a lawyer, Gabriel. He’s a shark. I did some digging after your meeting. The man has a ninety-two percent win rate in family court. He specializes in custody cases, and he doesn’t lose.”
My hand tightened on the phone. “You’re saying we can’t beat him.”
“I’m saying I can’t beat him.” John exhaled slowly. “You need someone better. Someone who plays the game the way Castellano does.”
“And you have someone in mind.”
“Anthony Gallagher.”
The name meant nothing to me. “Who?”
“New York City attorney. Born and raised in Brooklyn, he now practices in Nebraska, but he’s kept his New York bar license.
Even better, he’s in town for a charity event and has agreed to meet with you.
He’s got a reputation for being... aggressive.
Uncompromising. He doesn’t take cases he can’t win, and he’s never lost a custody battle. ”
“Never?”
“Never.” John paused. “There’s one thing you should know, though.”
Of course there was. “What?”
“He’s a member of a motorcycle club. The Silver Shadows. It’s legitimate—charity rides, community outreach, that sort of thing—but he’s... unconventional. Shows up to court in a suit, but he rides a Harley, and he doesn’t apologize for it.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You’re recommending I hire a biker lawyer.”
“I’m recommending you hire the best custody attorney on the East Coast,” John corrected. “Who happens to ride a motorcycle. If you want to beat Richard Castellano, you need Anthony Gallagher.”
Through the kitchen door, I heard Cate laugh at something Megan said. Heard my daughter’s delighted giggle in response.
I’d do whatever it took to keep her.
“Set up a meeting,” I said.
Anthony Gallagher arrived at two PM on a motorcycle that sounded like controlled thunder.
I watched from the living room window as he pulled into the driveway—a man in his late forties, maybe early fifties, with a light dusting of silver hair and a leather jacket that had seen better days.
He moved with the kind of confidence that came from decades of winning, swinging off the bike with practiced ease.
“Wow. Is that him?” Cate appeared beside me, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’d been stress-baking since I told her about the meeting. The kitchen smelled of coffee and something cinnamon.
“That’s him.”
“He looks yummy.”
“He is in a motorcycle gang and I’m standing right here.”
Her eyes went wide. “What? Just because we’re married doesn’t mean I’m blind.”
I groaned. “John says he’s the best.”
“Gabriel, you hired a biker to handle your custody case?”
“Our custody case,” I corrected, and watched her face do something complicated. “And yes. Because apparently Richard Castellano is worse.”
The doorbell rang.
Cate smoothed down her shirt, one of mine that she’d borrowed this morning and hadn’t given back, and took a breath. “Okay. Let’s do this.”
I opened the door.
Anthony Gallagher was taller than I’d expected.
Six-two, maybe six-three, with broad shoulders and hands that looked like they could rebuild an engine or destroy someone in court with equal efficiency.
His leather jacket was worn but expensive, and when he unzipped it, I caught a glimpse of a tailored suit underneath.
“Dr. Lyon.” His voice was pure New York, rough around the edges but articulate. He extended his hand. “Anthony Gallagher.”
His grip was firm. Assessing.
“Thank you for coming,” I said, stepping aside. “This is my wife, Cate.”
“Mrs. Lyon.” Anthony’s expression shifted when he looked at her, something warmer, more appreciative. “John mentioned you were recently married. Congratulations.”
“Thank you,” Cate said, and I watched her smile appear. The real one, not the nervous one she used with strangers. “Can I get you some coffee? I just made a fresh pot.”
“That would be great, thank you.”
She disappeared into the kitchen, and Anthony’s gaze followed her for a beat too long before returning to me.
“Nice place,” he said, scanning the living room. “How long have you lived here?”
“Four years or so. Megan was almost two when I bought the place.”
“And Cate moved in when?”
“Three days ago.”
His eyebrows rose slightly. “Fast.”
“The situation required it.”
“I’m sure it did.” He settled into the armchair I indicated, crossing one ankle over his knee.
“John filled me in on the basics. Your ex-wife is challenging the custody arrangement, claiming you’re not providing a stable home environment.
She’s remarried to Richard Castellano, who’s representing her. ”
“That’s correct.”
“And you responded by getting married to your daughter’s nanny.” It wasn’t a question. “Within a week of Tonya’s lawyer showing up.”
“Yes.”
Anthony studied me for a long moment. “That’s either brilliant or incredibly stupid. I haven’t decided which yet.”
Cate returned with a tray of coffee, cream, sugar, and what looked like fresh scones. She set it on the coffee table with the kind of simple grace that made it look effortless.
“I wasn’t sure how you take your coffee,” she said to Anthony. “So I brought options.”
“Black is fine.” He accepted the cup she poured, and I watched his expression shift again. “Did you make these?”
“The scones? Yeah. I stress-bake.” She shot me a look. “Gabriel’s been very stress-inducing lately.”
Anthony laughed, a real laugh, warm and genuine. “I can imagine. These look incredible.”
“They’re cinnamon chip. My mom’s recipe.”
“Your mother taught you to bake?”
“Among other things. She’s a chef. Well, she was. She’s retired now, but she still cooks like she’s feeding an army.”
I watched Anthony lean forward slightly, his attention fully on Cate. “A chef? That’s impressive. Do you cook professionally?”
“I did, well... I wanted to. I just finished culinary school and was supposed to work as a sous chef in Boston before I moved here.”
“Boston?” His interest sharpened. “What brought you to Connecticut?”
This was it. The vetting process John had warned me about.
Cate glanced at me, and I gave her a small nod. We’d practiced this. Kept it simple, kept it true.
“The job opportunity fell through,” she said carefully. “And I needed a change. My mom learned Gabriel was looking for a nanny and she thought I would be a good fit.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Three weeks.”
Anthony’s expression didn’t change, but I saw the calculation behind his eyes. “Three weeks. And you’re married now.”
“Yes.”
“That’s quite a whirlwind romance.”
“It was... unexpected,” Cate said, and there was something in her voice, something genuine that made Anthony’s expression soften. “But sometimes the best things are.”
He studied her for another moment, then took a sip of his coffee. “This is excellent, by the way.”
“Thank you.”
“And the scones are even better.” He took a bite, and I watched his eyes close briefly. “Your mother taught you well.”
Cate’s smile was pleased, genuine. “She’ll be happy to hear that.”
“Does she approve of the marriage?”
The question was casual, but I heard the lawyer underneath it. Testing. Probing for weaknesses.
“She has... concerns,” Cate admitted. “About the speed of it. But she likes Gabriel, and she adores Megan.”
“And your father?”
“He’s more practical. He wants to make sure I’m happy. They live next door.”
“Are you?” Anthony’s gaze was direct. “Happy?”
Cate’s eyes found mine across the room, and something passed between us. Something real.
“Yes,” she said quietly. “I am.”
Anthony nodded slowly, then turned to me. “And you, Dr. Lyon? Are you happy with this arrangement?”
“Yes.”
“Even though you married your employee in less than a month?”
“Cate isn’t my employee anymore. She’s my wife.”
“Legally, yes. But Richard Castellano is going to argue that this marriage is a sham. That you panicked when Tonya showed up and convinced your nanny to marry you to make yourself look stable.”
“He can argue whatever he wants,” I said evenly. “It won’t change the facts.”
“Which are?”
“That I’m married to Cate. That we’re providing a stable, loving home for Megan. And that Tonya abandoned her daughter, then disappeared for three years before deciding she wanted to play mother again.”
Anthony’s mouth curved slightly. “Good. That’s the energy we need.
” He set down his coffee cup. “But here’s what we’re up against: Richard Castellano is going to tear this marriage apart.
He’s going to question every detail: how you met, when you started dating, why you got married so quickly.
He’s going to interview your friends, your colleagues, anyone who might suggest this isn’t real. ”
“Let him,” I said.
“He’s also going to focus on Cate.” Anthony’s gaze shifted to her. “Your background, your qualifications, your relationship with Megan. He’s going to try to paint you as an opportunist who saw a chance to marry a wealthy doctor and took it.”
I felt my jaw tighten, but Cate just nodded. “I understand.”
“Do you?” Anthony leaned forward. “Because this is going to get ugly. He’s going to dig into your past, your finances, and your personal life.
He’s going to ask why a culinary student with a promising career in Boston suddenly became a nanny in Connecticut.
He’s going to question your motives, your character, your fitness as a stepmother. ”