Page 94 of Quiet Protector
When I explained that to Brandon, it was like a lightbulb switched on inside of his head. He finally understood why Grayson stopped him from killing Madden all those months ago. As much as Madden hurt us, killing him would have hurt Mrs. McGee even more. Neither Brandon nor I wanted that. So, instead of plotting ways to take Madden down illegally, Brandon transfixed his attention on serving justice to both Madden and Ophelia legally.
We worked side by side for months, filing motions and scouring through stacks of evidence for hours at a time.
Some days we had wins.
Others, we didn’t.
Our bid to make Madden serve time for his crimes failed. I was railroaded on the witness stand by Mr. McGee. He based his entire defense on the fact I never said ‘no.’ He made out that I had a fascination with his family and used my friendship with his ‘less attributed child’ to get closer to his ‘astute son.’ My financial records were splashed across the tabloids, and my sex life was scrutinized. Not even Brandon pretending to side with the defense in the hope of turning the knife on his father worked.
Mr. McGee did what he had done his entire life. He used his charm to have the jury side with him. In all honesty, I was pissed. When the verdict was handed down, I almost spiraled as deeply as Brandon did months earlier. But, out of nowhere, little rays of sunshine broke through the dark clouds swarming us.
My courage to fight for justice saw other women step forward. The first person was Gemma Calderon-Levesque. After Brandon reached out to her, she risked a multi-million- dollar settlement with the McGees to speak out with me. Then, one by one, more women came forward. Some were from Madden’s past, and others were as recent as last year.
While Leo and I sorted through a sickening number of victim accounts to have Madden charged with multiple counts of rape, sexual harassment, and workplace bullying, Brandon returned to his position in the Bureau under Grayson’s branch. For the most part, it was both healing and painful for him. He lived for the adrenaline a hard and seemingly impossible race to win gave him, but every contest has speedbumps.
Isaac Holt is Brandon’s.
How was Brandon to know the payments Isaac set up for Bobby weren’t as Ophelia stated. She made out the money Isaac was placing in her account every month was to help her fight Brandon’s bid for custody of Bobby.
Could you imagine how much that hurt Brandon to hear? He’d been fighting Ophelia in the courts for months just to get proof Bobby was his son, then when he finally had DNA evidence he was, Ophelia not only reopened the rape case she had ‘forgotten’ she’d instigated when it wasn’t of use to her, she also supposedly sought help from a man she knew didn’t like Brandon.
Her accusation switched Brandon’s custody agreement from being every second weekend to one supervised hourly visit a month. As you can imagine, that made Brandon agitated, and unfortunately, he sometimes took it out on the wrong people.
Brandon didn’t tell me exactly what he said to Isabelle the day he wired her up to be interviewed by Kirill Bobrov, but I could tell it was harsh. His eyes were tainted with as much remorse as they held the day Madden’s verdict was returned not guilty for my rape.
Although we’ve yet to achieve justice for me, with every day bringing us closer to achieving our combined goals, the weight on Brandon’s shoulders grows weaker as the months move on, and our relationship is blossoming.
We still spend a majority of our weekends holed up in my loft, eating takeaway and watching corny 90s movies, but instead of our time together being doused by awkward unease, it’s fueled by mutual passion, heart-soaring murmurs, and faint brushes of fingertips under a blanket. We’ve even managed to sneak in the occasional heated kiss.
We’re not close to the level of intimacy we had before Madden tried to snuff it, but since our friendship is more important than anything, I’m not worried. We’re closer than we’ve ever been, so I’m confident even if the intimacy side never returns, we’ll still be okay. Brandon is my best friend, and I’d pick for him to have that title over lover any day of the week.
Brandon loses the chance to answer my question when a gruff voice over the speaker advises me Ophelia is on her way up. I never thought this meeting would occur. Why would a known mafia princess meet with a previously-appointed ADA in another state? She wouldn’t, and that’s why Ophelia has no idea about my job descriptions, former or current.
To her, I’m Melody Gottle, wannabee founder of the baby-making ring the Castros and Petrettis let fold when Col Petretti was killed during a sting days before I arrived in Ravenshoe many months ago.
I’ll give it to Ophelia, she’s smarter than she looks. She didn’t take my claims of being mafia royalty at face value. She researched my family and me. Fortunately for the Bureau, Henry was willing to play along. He sees no shame in his name, so he was more than happy for me to use it however I saw fit. It is, after all, my real name.
When a heavy knock sounds at the door of my suite, I spin to face the entryway mirror. “I am fine,” I sign into my reflection, knowing only one man on the other end of the surveillance is capable of deciphering what I say. “It is time to get your son back.”
* * *
The frantic beat of my heart drops several inches lower when Brandon’s eyes swing my way. They’re full of pride, although it’s barely seen through the lust clouding them. He’s hardly taken his eyes off me since our joint FBI-CIA sting.
Our ruse worked. It wasn’t easy. It took me living up to my namesake to have Ophelia convinced I had what it would take to harvest children as if they’re cobs of corn, but I did it. I played the role, and I played it well.
We have enough evidence to put Ophelia away for life and to have her husband charged with criminal conspiracy, larceny, and attempted murder. Neither he nor Ophelia killed the women found at the Shroud’s ranch, but they knew what was happening, and they didn’t alert authorities. That’s a convictable offense.
My inflated chest sinks a little when Brandon asks, “What about Bobby? What happens to him?”
“At the moment, he’s under the care of the couple from the pharmacy.” When Phillipa’s reply fills Brandon’s eyes with panic, she talks faster, “They had no idea what Ophelia and Louis were doing. They’re innocent in this.” She waits for him to absorb the truth in her eyes before adding, “I’ve also requested an emergency hearing with the judge who presided over your family court hearings.” The happiness stretching across her face burns my eyes with tears, much less what she says next, “With Ophelia willing to cooperate for a reduced sentence, and Dr. Avery giving your mental stability a glowing review, you could be taking Bobby home as early as next week.”
“Next week?” I squeeze Brandon’s hand so hard, I’m afraid I am about to break it. This is everything we’ve been working toward for months.
Laughing at our shocked silence, Phillipa nods before she stands to her feet to gather her belongings. While Brandon walks her to the door, I breathe out the excited butterflies in my stomach. I only got to meet Bobby once before Brandon’s visits were switched to supervised, but now there’s a high possibility he’ll get to live with us in New York. Jesus. This turned out better than we were hoping.
“We need a bigger apartment,” I jest with a laugh when Brandon closes the door with Phillipa on the other side. “And another bed. You know how much I love to hog. Poor Bobby will get squashed—”
My words stop when my eyes collide with Brandon’s across the room. His eyes are holding the same amount of excitement as mine. It just isn’t giddy, kiddy-like enthusiasm brightening his. He’s in awe, and every inch of his admiration is directed at me.
