Page 256 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet
“Be that as it may, I can’t rightly continue the trial if the lead prosecutor is now under investigation for the same crime as the defendant.”
I tucked the edges of my mouth down, fighting the smile that wanted to dominate my face. We’d counted on Martin Hartford being too entrenched in his ways to allow that to happen. He might have wanted Dennis’s help for a bid at mayor, but he was still too upstanding to corrode as fully as the US Attorney.
Dennis gaped at him. “What the hell kind of motivation would I have for killing Giuseppe di Carlo? I didn’t even know the man.”
“No,” Yara agreed, as smooth and sly as a cat toying with her mouse. “But we did unearth aNew York Timesarticle from the fall stating that you intended to use this case to make a run at State Senate.”
“That means nothing.”
“That depends on your perspective,” I argued. “Sometimes, if you want something badly enough, you’ll go to extreme lengths to procure it.”
He stared at me then as if struck, not shocked exactly, but deeply unsettled. He was realizing that he had underestimated me. That he had assumed I hated my father enough to eschew criminality for the right side of the law. That I would never lower myself to the mud he himself rolled around in.
He didn’t know that I would go to hell and back for Dante Salvatore.
It had been surprisingly easy to distract Dennis at the gun range so that Frankie could pull his prints from one of the handguns he’d left displayed on the table. Mason Matlock had taken the gun Cosima used to kill his uncle, Giuseppe di Carlo, to protect her and confessed as much to Dante and Adriano when they were interrogating him months ago. Addie, Chen, and Jaco had searched every subway locker for two weeks to find the one Mason had stored the weapon in.
But we’d found it.
The rest was easy.
Frankie had applied Dennis’s pulled prints to the grip of the gun and returned it to the locker. Tore had called in the tip to Detective Falcone because I still had his card in my purse, and I knew he wouldn’t be able to resist taking down a potential murderer.
And here we were.
I smiled at Dennis, that old, familiar grin that froze on my face from the force of its icy blast. “Run those tests, Dennis. Detective Falcone is on standby waiting to arrest you if they come back as conclusive as ours did.”
“You filthy, fucking bitch,” he snapped, stepping forward as if to hit me.
I stood, looming over him in my six-inch heels, daring him to act. “Better a victorious bitch than a scumbag loser. Call us when you have the results back, Dennis. And good luck. I have it on good authority from Dante that men like you survive in prison because they make such good little bitches.”
Dennis fumed, his nostrils flaring around his hot, heaving breaths. I’d never seen him so unhinged, but it was easy to see that there was violence in his blood and an eagerness to sin. I had no doubt he’d committed his own atrocities to get to the top of the legal food chain, and I felt absolutely no compunction about taking him down with his own filthy antics.
Without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed out, already dialing a number on his phone, probably to find his own lawyer.
Yara and I didn’t leave.
I sat back down and stared at Judge Hartford.
“It would be unfortunate to lose Dennis’s endorsement for mayor,” I began after a long moment of strained silence. “I understand it’s been a dream of yours.”
Judge Hartford stared implacably at me.
Yara leaned forward, the picture of powerful elegance. “He wasn’t your only friend, Martin.”
She dipped to reach her hand into her Gucci purse and tossed something thick onto his desk. We watched together as he used a finger to spin the paper bag so the opening was facing him. His eyes rounded at the sight of the stacks of crisp bills inside.
“A little campaign contribution,” I explained with a polite smile. “Politics are so expensive these days.”
“I won’t accept this.” His heavy brow was puckered so tight, it was hard to see his gaze beneath it. “I don’t take bribes.”
“I think we’re beyond that, given you didn’t force Dennis to recuse himself or declare a mistrial when you had the chance,” I countered boldly, filled with righteous fury and the calm that came from having all the power.
“What about a nice little endorsement from Governor Mortimer Percy?” I suggested, mentioning Daniel Sinclair’s adopted father. “He’s an old family friend who would be happy to help a seasoned judge on his way to political success.”
Judge Hartford stared at the stack of bills spilling out of that simple paper bag, the edge of his thumb sliding along the tower.
He was counting.
