CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Mens Rea
How can I love a man who doesn't even know I exiiiiist? #Dantezetes (@deisebloombastic)
My reflection judges me in the mirror. Swollen eyes. Hair pulled back in some makeshift arrangement. And his scent… damn it. It was everywhere.
I leaned over the sink, ran my fingers under the water, and pressed them to the back of my neck.
When I came back to the living room, Célie looked at me like someone holding a scalpel. She knew she needed to cut, but hated the idea of seeing blood.
“What are you going to do?”
“I don't know yet.”
“Helena…”
“I said I don't know.” My voice came out sharp, but not because of her. Because of me. Because of him. Because of the knot in my throat that felt woven from barbed wire.
Célie didn't push. And I silently thanked her for it.
At the courthouse, the emergency summons was already posted on the boards. The expedited trial. The motion to revoke bail. Quinn was moving like a shark that had smelled blood in the water.
And the damn blood was mine too.
I went to Judge Fisherman. I wanted to ask for a postponement, a stay, a damn miracle. But I couldn't.
Because before I was a lawyer, I was the alibi.
And that made me a suspect.
Or an accomplice.
When I got home later that same endless Monday, there was so much pressure around me, so much tension in my body, that I felt cornered—like the walls were closing in, squeezing me.
I poured myself a whisky neat and stared at the case paperwork spread across the table. A quick glance at my phone to confirm time was actually passing and not stuck in some eternal loop.
A browser widget flashed a headline about the attempted murder of Petrov. Hugo ran in the same circles as the last victim, but unlike Quentin, Hugo was close to Dante. And Dante was close to Claire. Super close, apparently.
Hugo had attended a charity dinner with his family at the Esperanto Equestrian Center and slipped away for a few minutes.
Then witnesses reported three shots and found Hugo collapsed with a gunshot wound to his stomach.
He said he didn't see who shot him. He only remembered the pain and waking up in the hospital.
His photo had appeared on various forums minutes earlier, marked with a red X across his face—just like Quentin.
As I scrolled through the photos from that night, I spotted familiar faces at the party. The Marinos were there. I opened the browser and searched for Maressa's social media profile. She wasn't an impartial witness, but her photo timeline could be useful for building our defense.
In the very first photo, Claire and Maressa were smiling next to Hugo, about an hour before the crime.
Maressa was wearing a scarf around her neck.
A designer piece. But it wasn't the price tag that caught my attention—they had the money to afford luxury. The pattern was strangely fresh in my mind. Suddenly, the million voices in my head seemed to align into a chorus, guiding me to my phone's gallery.
I dragged the time marker on the video back to the beginning and hit play.
The scene played out again. The tension. The violence. The screams and the grand finale.
There it was.
One frame before everything went dark. A microsecond of perfect clarity. The scarf.
I didn't need to look it up to know it was an exclusive piece. Image mattered to the Marinos. Especially to Candice.
I grabbed my keys and got in the car. My destination was obvious—and I had questions for the answers I already knew.
I couldn't pretend not to see them anymore.
When the elevator doors opened, Dante stepped into the studio holding a few lilies. He startled when he saw me, but his surprise quickly gave way to a smile—one that died when I didn't return it.
“The security guard let me up,” I explained, sitting on the couch and taking a sip of whisky. “And I needed this.”
Dante didn't respond. He walked over to the couch and sat down beside me, setting the lilies on the coffee table.
“I thought you were avoiding me when you sent your partner to deliver the news.” He stretched out his legs. I handed him my glass, and he took a sip.
“Communication isn't always our strong suit,” I replied, taking my glass back.
“Only when you keep ignoring my calls.”
“Why did you lie to me?”
“What?”
“Maressa.” I stared him down. “I spent the whole drive here thinking about you. You know that? I always wondered why you seemed to care so little about defending yourself. Was hiring me part of your plan?”
“How many of these have you had?” He took the glass from my hand. “I thought the whisky was gone.”
“I brought it from home, and damn it, you keep doing that thing where you answer a question with another question.”
“You drove here while drinking?” His voice carried surprise and concern.
“You didn't answer me. Was this weekend just to create an alibi?”
“What the fuck are you talking about, Helena?”
“Are you using me?” I finally voiced the shadow that had been clouding my judgment all day.
“That's the most absurd accusation I've ever heard, counselor. And keep in mind, I'm being accused of murder.”
“Why did you lie about Maressa? She was at the restaurant when the fight with Quentin happened. Why isn't she in your statement?”
I grabbed the glass back and finished the last of it.
“It wasn't important.”
“Of course it was. I asked you to tell me everything.” I didn't want to shout, but I think I was.
“Maressa is just a kid.” Dante stood up and walked to the window.
“Did she go with you? Did Quentin make some joke about her?”
“No.”
“Damn it, Dante. You can't lie to me… not now.
Not after everything. I'm your lawyer and your fucking alibi.” I walked over and spun him around to face me.
He needed to look me in the eye. “Why was Maressa there?
Why didn't anyone see her leave the Darwins' house with your parents? Why the hell are you all shielding her?”
The air was thick, and I was sweating even though the night was cold.
“Maressa didn't do anything except disobey a direct order to stay home that night. That's why we fought… me and that asshole Quentin. We didn't say she was there because she's just a kid.”
“She's about to turn seventeen.”
“An age when we do a lot of stupid shit without thinking.”
“And Cherrie K.?” The name hit him, and his gaze wavered for a second. “Yeah, I found her.”
“Did you talk to her?”
“No. But I know who she is. And I know you paid her to stay off the radar.”
“I didn't pay her,” he said. “But I trusted her discretion.”
“What didn't you want them to know?”
Dante looked like he was suffocating. And that's exactly where I needed him, even if I was losing air too.
“I didn't… Helena, why all this now?”
“Because I'm on the verge of a breakdown,” I admitted. “And you're to blame. And for this crime, I won't spare you.”
“I never asked you to spare me from anything.”
“Want the extended or deluxe version? Well, I can give you both.” I dug my index finger into his chest. “You lie to me, manipulate me, pull me into your game, and I sink so deep I can't come back. And the deeper I go, the more I see the shipwreck below—like a premonition of my own end.”
I realized my finger had gone so deep into his chest that a drop of blood smeared my nail. Dante didn't pull away or react to the pain I was probably causing.
“You think I don't care? Is that what you feel when I touch you, when I kiss you?” He stepped forward, pressing his body against my finger.
“When we fuck and I beg you to moan my fucking name?
When you show me who you are, do you think I look at you lying there, giving yourself to me, like it's nothing?”
Dante grabbed my hand when I tried to pull my nail from his flesh.
“You really don't see it, Helena.” His eyes locked onto mine. “I'm not perfect. You're right. I'm a fucking spoiled brat who can't accept a reality where you're not mine. Want to curse me out for doing what I think is right? Do it. Want me to be the fucking villain in your story… okay. I accept.”
Dante gripped my chin, holding my gaze.
“But don't look at me like that.” His voice was thick with emotion. “Please.”
“Like you're guilty?”
“Like this is the end.” He pulled me into a kiss. His lips claimed mine, but I shoved him back. With anger. With hunger. With desperation. He stumbled back, surprised, and I advanced.
We stared at each other, breathless, exhausted from carrying so much.
My hands grabbed his shirt and pulled him back.
There was no reconciliation between us. It was an official declaration of war.
Our lips and teeth on a battlefield, our bodies fighting for territory. Dante shoved me back against the wall. The whole building could have shaken, but I felt nothing except rage and lust.
He ripped off his shirt. The mark of my nail in crimson red. I kissed him. Bit him.
Dante growled and grabbed me by the throat, pinning me between him and the wall. His breath came heavy against me.
“You don't want this.” His voice carried the weight of a life sentence.
“You don't get to decide that.”
I gripped his hand where it circled my throat. Dante was so close he could have gone right through me if he wanted.
“You're going to hate me for this.”
“It's not like I don't already have a long list of reasons to.”
He spun me around with brutal force, yanked off my blouse, and threw it to the floor—not with haste, but with punishment. Maybe mine. Maybe his.
My hands landed on the wall, and I let them stay.
Because I deserved this.
Because I wanted this.
Because it was him.
He kissed my back, panting.
“I'm going to fuck you, Helena. Hard. Angry.” He pressed his lips to my ear, almost like he was giving me a warning. Like I needed to agree to the terms. “But I promise you'll enjoy every second.”
“You talk too much, Dante,” I grunted when he pulled down my pants, exposing my bare ass to him.
“Fuck off.” He brought his hand down hard on my ass. It burned. It hurt. And somehow made my clit throb.
My breathing quickened, and without warning Dante slid inside—every inch of him. I clawed at the wall.
His fingers slid to my slit, but instead of stroking me, Dante dug in, gripping me between them. I pushed back harder against him. And he yanked my hair at the root.
He touched me. Bit me. Thrust. Covered my mouth when I screamed.
My ass burned every time he drove deeper, and I could hear our bodies colliding. Heavy breathing echoed through the room. Every so often, his hand came down on my ass again.
This wasn't makeup sex. We were fighting for dominance while our bodies surrendered to their own nature. Swimming in our own quicksand, desperate to sink faster.
“Where are you going?” Dante asked, watching me get up from the nest we'd made on the living room floor. I reached for my panties and pulled them on, then my pants.
“Home,” I answered, zipping up.
“It's late and you've been drinking.”
“There can't be a drop of alcohol left in my system by now.”
I grabbed my phone and car keys.
“Besides, I need to think. And I can't do that with you by my side.”
Dante didn't respond, but his silence broke when he noticed me staring at the lilies on the table.
“When I was riding up the hospital elevator to visit Hugo, your partner called to tell me I was the main suspect.” Dante stood and approached me. “Helena… meeting you changed everything for me.”
“I think I can say the same.”
“I didn't plan to have you as my lawyer.” He touched my face, his eyes soft on mine. “I didn't plan to fall in love with you. And never—under any circumstances—would I dare hurt you to save myself.”
I couldn't respond because I was still absorbing what he'd said. We'd never named what we felt. I never had. And hearing Dante say he was in love with me was as intense as it was terrifying.
“If the price of my freedom is losing you, I'm already condemned.” His lips met mine. “You made me a promise… keep it.”
I understood what he meant. I could save him and plunge into the abyss. Or save myself and be condemned to exile forever.
There were no easy choices with Dante. And this was just one more proof.