Page 118 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet
On the one hand was Dennis, a man who was renowned for putting criminals away, who was making a bid for the Senate on the basis of his superhero record.
And on the other was Dante.
The most infamous mafioso of the last twenty years, a man who was on trial for a murder I knew he hadn’t committed just as I knew he had committed others.
I realized I had this idea of a hero as someone who was socially accepted, someone who was revered by the masses. But heroism didn’t always arrive dressed in white and topped with a halo or on the back of some shining steed.
Heroism was about your willingness to right wrongs, to sacrifice your own comfort and safety to affect change when you crossed something that needed changing. It was assuming responsibility for people who didn’t have the power to stand up for themselves.
It was about being brave enough to live life by your own rules and accepting who you were, flaws and all.
I stood on that snowy corner for a long time after Dennis and Seamus parted, letting my entire world view crumble at my feet, and when I felt my skin frozen but my blood on fire, I felt lighter than I had in years.
I gave the footage to Yara.
She didn’t ask any questions. Instead, she’d raised a single dark brow and called for an emergency meeting with the prosecution before Judge Hartford.
I was giddy as we cabbed to the courthouse, my thigh bouncing with nerves the entire way.
Yara didn’t seem to share in my excitement. If anything, she seemed oddly morose, her eyes, when they met mine, almost sorry.
I didn’t understand until we were in the judge’s chambers.
Martin Hartford was wearing a suit, sitting in one of two leather chairs drinking a glass of brown liquor when we were allowed entry to the room.
In the other chair sat Dennis O’Malley.
I frowned at him as he tipped his own glass to me.
“Scotch?” he offered with that handsome stock smile, wooden around the edges.
“What is this?” I asked even though it wasn’t my place to do so.
“Martin and I were just catching up when you called,” Dennis explained mildly. “We’re old friends. What’s it been now, Marty? Twenty-two years?”
“Twenty-three,” he corrected.
“Twenty-three.” Dennis pointed at one of the old photos on Judge Hartford’s wall. “That’s the two of us as lowly first years at the DA’s office. We both worked on Reno Maglione’s case.”
Reno Maglione was one of the most prolific turncoats in American mafia history.
“We’ve been putting away the scum of the streets for a long time,” he continued, raising his glass for the judge to click it against his own. “Here’s to many more years, my friend.”
Beside me, Yara sighed softly.
“You met with Seamus Moore today,” I accused, shocked by the proceedings. “We’re demanding a mistrial on the basis that you’re directly involved with the Irish mob.”
“He was an informant,” he said with a shrug.
“That is not the proper way to meet an informant,” I reminded him, feeling heat build under my skin. “We will call you to testify to that fact on the stand, and you will be forced to recuse yourself. A lawyer representing a case cannot be a witness in the same trial.”
“Very good, Ms. Lombardi.” He laughed. “A plus student indeed. Only, this isn’t a mock trial. This is real life and real court. I’m certainly not going to recuse myself from this case. If we win this, I’m well on my way to being the next state senator.”
I looked at Judge Hartford incredulously, but his face was entirely placid.
“Fitzgerald’s term as mayor is almost up,” Dennis told us slyly, leaning forward to clap the judge on the knee. “I think Marty would be a shoo-in.”
Oh my God.
