Page 11 of Anti-Heroes in Love Duet
I hated him.
Didn’t he realize I’d taken this case on as a favor to my sister? That I normally stayed fifty yards away from Made Men, that they made me sick with painful memories and injustices.
He was supposed to love Cosima, so why the hell was he finding ways to embarrass her sister in front of her boss?
I shifted in my seat and picked at a hangnail until it bled.
It helped calm me down.
When I looked at Dante again, he was frowning slightly at me, his hand in the inside pocket of his suit jacket. A moment later, a pristine white handkerchief floated into my lap.
I glared at it, annoyed he was the kind of man to carry such a thing because I’d always found the habit gentlemanly and attractive. Spitefully, I ground my bleeding thumb into the fabric so the blood smeared across the whiteness.
Dante’s lips, nearly the same color red that I’d deposited on the fabric, tightened again with a suppressed grin.
I ground my teeth and forced myself to focus on the proceedings once again.
Judge Hartford laid out the charges under the RICO Act—the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organization Act—stating that Dante Salvatore was being indicted on three counts: first-degree murder, illegal gambling and racketeering, and money laundering.
The murder charge was the real focus of the case, though. Some charges just couldn’t stick unless they were adhered to something weightier with more burden of proof. Murder was the anchor for the case the state had been building against Dante Salvatore in the five years since he’d moved to America and become one of the biggest crime bosses in modern history.
If we could just get him clear of that charge, the prosecution’s case would fall like a poorly constructed house of cards.
I was mulling that over when the judge asked Dante how he pleaded to the charges.
It was only then that I clued into the energy emanating from the mafioso at my side. The air around him seemed to solidify like an invisible force field, and when he spoke, the only sound in the entire room was the European cadence of his voice. It was so still, it seemed everyone was holding their breath.
Even me.
Slowly, his large body unraveling almost endlessly with a grace no man who was that muscled should’ve been capable of, Dante rose to his feet. Once there, he slanted a quick glance at the closest cluster of photogs, did up his suit jacket button calmly, and then locked eyes with the judge.
One measured blink that was somehow predatory, his attention a stalking weight on Judge Hartford, and then he drawled solemnly, “Not guilty, Your Honor.”
Immediately the entire room lit up with flashes and commotion. Whispers reverberated like gunshots through the cramped courtroom, and they only disappeared when Judge Hartford called for order three times, the last voiced in a commanding yell that raised the hair on the backs of my arms.
I looked up at Dante to find a small, self-satisfied grin on his too-red mouth. Without hesitation, I tugged at the back of his suit jacket to get him to sit down and stop his bizarre gloating. He settled into his chair willingly, an innocent expression affixed to his strong features.
I didn’t know who he thought he was fooling with those wide eyes and slightly raised brows, but a small part of me applauded his audacity.
On trial for murder, potentially facing a lifetime behind bars, and still, Dante Salvatore managed to have fun, however inappropriate it might have been.
Arraignments were often boring, but this was shaping up to be the most sensational one I’d ever attended.
“Your Honor, the accused has clear ties to England and Italy,” Dennis stood to say when the judge addressed him to state his case for not posting bail for the defendant. “His own brother, one of the wealthiest men in Britain, is here today and would have resources enough to get Mr. Salvatore out of the country—”
“Objection,” I murmured under my breath at the same time Yara stood to say the very same thing. “Conjecture.”
Judge Hartford slanted Yara an unamused look. “I hardly need Mr. O’Malley to state the obvious, Ms. Ghorbani. Your client has known connections in Europe and the UK, enough legitimate business to have access to significant monetary resources if he should want to flee the country, and sufficient motivation to do so. I see no reason he should not be detained until trial.”
Beside me, Dante stiffened slightly, the only clue that the idea of incarceration was unappealing to him. Then again, the fastest timeframe for a trial as big as this was at least six months but more likely one to three years. New York and its residents loved a good mafia case, and it was a prime opportunity for the city, its officers, district and US Attorneys, and government to showcase their protection of the city.
“With all due respect, Your Honor,” Yara said in that misleadingly lovely voice that meant she was about to kick verbal ass. “The prosecution has fairly insufficient proof to bring this to trial in the first place.”
“That matter is not currently up for debate, Ms. Ghorbani,” Judge Hartford interrupted coldly.
“No,” she agreed easily. “But my client is an established member of New York City society. He owns multiple businesses in the city and most of his living relations are residents. This is his first criminal offense on American soil, and therefore, he cannot be considered a threat to the public if he is granted bail. Furthermore, he was unduly attacked this morning based on these accusations, and there is a real threat of bodily harm should he be kept in the general population in prison awaiting trial.”
Judge Hartford stared at her flatly before his eyes flickered over to Dante and his jaw went tight.
