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CHAPTER 1
Every eye in the Missoula County District Courtroom was trained on Dante Malone as he delivered the final plea. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury,” he concluded, “my client is merely a pawn, ensnared by an inherently biased system.” He locked eyes with several jury members, crafting silent entreaties with each measured gaze. Beside him, Marco Felton, the client with a history of drug offenses and alleged violent acts, sat stoically, waiting, his fate now tightly woven with Dante’s words.
Dante paused and took in a deep, deliberate breath. He nodded at the judge and settled into his seat, the wood cool against his back. The courtroom hummed with whispered conversations and restless shuffling. The tension was palpable.
The judge cleared his throat and addressed the group of people who would now decide on Marco’s fate, “Members of the jury, you’ve heard all the evidence and the arguments from both sides. It is now your duty to determine the facts from the evidence provided to you. You, and you alone, are the judges of the facts. As you deliberate, consider all the evidence, but also remember that you may draw reasonable inferences from that evidence.
“Do not let bias, prejudice, or sympathy influence your decision. Your verdict must be based solely on the evidence and law I provided.” He slid his gaze over the mismatched group and continued sternly, “It is your duty to discuss the case with your fellow jurors and work toward a unanimous verdict if possible. Each of you must decide the case for yourselves, but only after thorough consideration of the evidence with your fellow jurors. If you differ in your view of the evidence, such differences should be expressed and the reasons behind them explored. Remember that you are not advocates in this matter, but impartial judges of the facts.”
An older man with a dark complexion in the second row scowled.
“When you have reached a unanimous decision, please inform the bailiff who will notify me. If you have any questions or require clarification on any point of law or evidence, please write them down and hand them to the bailiff. He will bring them to my attention. You may now retire to the jury room to begin your deliberations.”
The jury rose and began to trickle out of the room.
Time seemed to stretch, but in reality, it was a mere half-hour before the jury reentered the courtroom. Their swift deliberation could be a positive sign, or it could be damning. Dante’s fingers played a silent rhythm on his lap, the only indication of the adrenaline coursing through him.
The foreman, a middle-aged woman with stern features, rose. “Not guilty,” she declared, her voice firm. A collective exhale filled the room, followed by a crescendo of murmurs. Dante’s posture remained impeccable, but he didn’t miss the relieved exclamation beside him.
Across the room, the judge’s gavel echoed with a finality, marking the end of a chapter. Dante’s gaze shifted momentarily to catch the resigned slump of the prosecutor’s shoulders. The two attorneys, adversaries in the courtroom, locked eyes. No words were exchanged, but their silent nod spoke of battles fought and mutual respect earned.
Whispers of disbelief rippled through the audience, but Dante remained composed, his exterior a mask of impassivity. Beneath it, a storm of triumph and satisfaction brewed, free from any hint of guilt or remorse.
Stepping out of the courtroom, the corridor’s sterile fluorescence did little to dim the glow of victory Dante felt. But the world outside had its own rhythm, and Dante was just one player on its vast stage.
A reporter—caked in makeup and still looking like a clueless teenager—dashed up to him, a hint of trepidation in her voice. “Mr. Malone,” she asked with the eagerness of a young pup, “how do you reconcile your ethics while defending such notorious figures?”
Without missing a beat or slowing his pace, Dante responded, “Every individual has the right to a fair trial; it’s the cornerstone of our justice system.” He deftly navigated the crowd, thoughts more on the day’s victory than on the morality of his decisions. He answered a couple more questions until the journalists gave up their chase. Dante turned a corner and then another. Making his way to the underground garage, he ignored a homeless individual, the man’s tattered clothing a stark contrast to Dante’s tailored suit and polished shoes. The juxtaposition of the homeless man’s ragged appearance against Dante’s refined demeanor was stark. Yet Dante’s thoughts, buoyed by the victory, were already on the challenges of tomorrow as he approached his Tesla Model X, its sleek form a testament to his accomplishments. Sliding into his expensive car, Dante felt the cool leather of the seat as he settled in, reveling in the tangible reminders of his success and wealth. Back in his opulent car, surrounded by the symbols of his achievements, he glanced at the pile of case files on his passenger seat. For Dante, there was no internal tug-of-war over morality—just the clear satisfaction of a game masterfully played in a world where rules and ethics shifted like sand.
CHAPTER 2
Dante’s anticipation brimmed with hope as he pulled up to Leonora’s lavish home. The memory of their first meeting at the local swingers’ club filled his mind, igniting a spark of excitement within him. In those few weeks since their encounter, they had shared conversations and experiences that seemed to foster a genuine connection. Dante couldn’t help but feel a sense of compatibility, a shared understanding of their desires and a burgeoning trust. As he glanced at Leonora’s front door, his heart fluttered with the promise of filling the next few days with exploration, intimacy, and the possibility of something more.
After parking his car in the driveway, Dante stood before Leonora’s grand residence, his gaze fixed upon the ornate double doors that adorned the entrance. The intricate carvings and elegant design spoke of luxury and opulence, evidence of the extravagant tastes of its owner. His finger hovered over the doorbell, hesitating for a moment before finally pressing it.
The sound reverberated through the imposing hallway, its melodic chime echoing in the silence of the estate. Dante shifted his weight from one foot to the other, anticipation building as he waited for a response. Seconds turned into minutes, stretching into an eternity as he wondered what might be causing the delay.
After what must have been five minutes, the doors swung open. Leonora’s appearance was slightly disheveled, her hair tousled and her eyes still heavy with sleep. Only a hint of a smile curved her lips and didn’t reach her eyes as she greeted him with a lackluster, “Hey.” The contrast between the grandeur of the door and the underwhelming response left Dante momentarily taken aback.
He suppressed the urge to rub his temples.
Despite the less-than-ideal start, Dante chose to hold on to the hope that their connection could still flourish amidst the unforeseen circumstances. After all, Rawhide Ranch beckoned, offering the potential for new beginnings and shared experiences. With a heavy sigh, Dante stepped into the ornate hallway. His gaze fell upon the array of suitcases, bags, and various items strewn haphazardly, creating a makeshift obstacle course. The sight stirred a mix of curiosity and concern within him, prompting questions about their purpose and significance.
“We’re only going away for a few days,” Dante said, his voice carrying a touch of exasperation. His gaze shifted from the cluttered hallway to Leonora, searching for an explanation. “Do you really need all these suitcases?” Please tell me this is some stuff she’s going to donate to a welfare organization.
Leonora’s eyes widened innocently as she fluttered her lashes. “Oh, darling,” she cooed, her voice dripping with a hint of melodrama. “A girl must always be prepared for any occasion, especially when it involves an exciting getaway like Rawhide Ranch.”
Dante’s eyebrows furrowed with disbelief. He had hoped for a simpler, more intimate experience with Leonora, but her high-maintenance tendencies seemed determined to shatter that illusion.
He fought to maintain his composure. “Look, we’re not moving in for a month. We’ll be gone for a week,” he said, struggling to keep his tone steady.
Leonora’s lips curled into a pout, her eyes glistening with defiance. “But, darling, a lady must always have options,” she countered, her voice teetering on the edge of a whine.
Dante closed his eyes and inhaled through his nose. He longed for a deeper connection, one rooted in authenticity and simplicity, yet Leonora seemed determined to uphold her façade of luxury and extravagance.
With a resigned nod, Dante made a silent decision. He would not allow the weight of Leonora’s excessive baggage to burden their getaway or their journey toward finding a genuine connection. Maybe, just maybe, Rawhide Ranch would open her up for different choices and deeper submission.
After that, Leonora insisted on making a detour to a nearby Starbucks, claiming that she couldn’t survive an hours-long trip without her special coffee fix. Dante, suppressing an exasperated sigh, found himself complying, unwilling to engage in yet another argument. As he stood in line waiting for Leonora’s elaborate order of a Caramel Ribbon Crunch Crème Frappuccino and his own simple tall black coffee, he couldn’t help but feel a growing sense of frustration.
