“I think she’s in love with me.” I chuckled and looked at the other club brothers.
Augustine came next—no last name, never needed one. He looked like he belonged in a Calvin Klein. Smoked a cigar the size of my thumb, always. The last bike was Nitro, the vice president, and he rode with the same rigid posture he’d learned in the Marines. Every inch of his visible skin was inked, mostly in black, and he always wore his cut sleeveless to show off the club’s own cryptic code. When he saw me, he grinned like a wolf and knocked his helmet against the bars in salute.
By then, the onlookers had retreated to a safe radius, whispering in small, tight circles. “That’s the Bloody Scythes,” someone breathed, as if saying it louder would make us more likely to explode. “Heard they run guns through the county.” “The big one killed three men in a bar fight.” They were mostly right, but that wasn’t what mattered.
Damron waited until I hit the bottom step, then flicked a glance up and down my frame, cataloguing every mark and muscle twitch. He always did that, even when you were on his side.
“Nice walk of shame,” he said, his voice pitched just for us. “How was Bellini?”
I shrugged. “Thirty days and a five-grand fine. Ten days to report.”
Augustine whistled through his teeth. “She’s getting soft. The last guy in your chair got a year.”
“Last guy bit the bailiff,” Nitro said. He eyed me. “You keep your mouth shut for once?”
I almost smiled. “I keep my mouth shut. But I told her she should see what the other guy looked like.”
Damron’s eyes narrowed, just a flicker. He nodded once, slow. “You did right.”
There was a code for moments like this. No handshakes, no hugs, just a physical geometry of loyalty. We all turned in unison, four sets of boots clapping pavement, and made for the bikes.
My own was still at the club garage, torn down for a new camshaft. Nitro leaned his head toward his back seat, the universal offer. I swung a leg over and settled in behind him, careful not to catch the exhaust on my calf. Augustine gunned his engine, and we pulled out in perfect formation. Damron took the lead, Augustine to the left, Nitro on the right, me riding bitch but not giving a fuck about the optics.
As we roared away from the courthouse, I looked back just once. Bellini’s chambers faced the front plaza. She would have seen us from her window, would have noted the precision, the unity, the way we owned the street like she owned the courtroom. Maybe she’d even admire it. People like her always understood power in whatever language they spoke.
We hit the open road and let the throttle climb. The crowd blurred behind us. The city faded to a smear in the mirrors, the only constant the throbbing engine beneath my fists and the steady, measured heartbeats of the men beside me. As we rode, something tugged at the back of my mind. Why had Bellini gone soft on me? Why had Jenna and Bellini held that weird eye contact? Too many fucking questions and not enough fucking time to figure out the answers.
Chapter two
Catherine
Night came for my chambers like a slow crawl of shadow, eating the wood trim and the dust motes and finally the glare off the legal pads stacked on my desk. I kept the overhead lights off. The only glow was the brass gooseneck lamp, its spotlight narrowing my world to a circle of paper and pen and the half-drained espresso going cold by my left hand. That, and the old bay window behind me, throwing up reflections of courthouse pillars in the street lamps. It was easy to believe in ghosts when you worked these hours.
Somewhere in the bowels of the building, a cleaning cart squeaked. I had twenty minutes until security started making rounds, maybe less if the new guy actually did his job. I preferred the building to be empty because it meant less noise, and less likelihood of anyone seeing me at anything less than my most professional. But that night, I almost wanted an interruption.
The one thing being a judge did to a woman's life was take away any chance at romance. I spent all my time digging through files and reading court cases, my manicured nails tapping against stacks of paper instead of tracing a lover's skin. I'dlearned to make do with sex toys on those lonely nights between J's visits, though nothing compared to the softness of skin on skin.
The phone rang. The number only family was supposed to use. I let it vibrate out the full ringtone, long enough to read the name: Anthony Bellini. Father, blood, seventy-three years old and still holding down the same corner table at D’Rossi’s in Yonkers. I answered, but didn’t greet.
He started in Italian like he always did when he wanted to keep a secret. “Catherine. Hanno ammazzato tuo nonno.” They killed your grandfather.
I pressed my thumb to the bridge of my nose, flattening out the start of a headache. “Which grandfather are we talking about? The one who claimed he shook hands with Mussolini, or the one who actually did?”
He ignored the joke. “Russo. This afternoon. Martini’s people did it, and they’re saying they’re not done. Your cousin Angelo is in the hospital.”
The back of my neck went ice cold. I looked at the reflection in the window and saw only a silhouette, rigid and tall, hair scraped back into its usual punishment bun. “He was in Rikers, last I checked.”
“Rikers does not keep out professionals. Catherine, they are going after everyone. I need you to stay aware.”
I wanted to laugh, but my throat was sand. “Father, I’m in New Mexico. I can see the courthouse from my window. No one here knows what a Bellini is.”
He sniffed, sharp and dismissive. “You are the only one they fear. The only one with a badge.”
“It’s not a badge, it’s a gavel,” I said. “And no one here cares about a dead wiseguy in the Bronx.”
But that wasn’t true, was it? Even out here, the East Coast had a way of catching up. Old secrets stuck like resin. I stared at theespresso, the way the surface reflected the lamp. I could picture the scene back home: red sauce, cigarettes, my father’s hands drumming the table, the way my mother hovered, desperate for someone to fight.
Anthony’s voice dropped, a whisper scaled for bar booths and backseats. “Catherine. These are dangerous men. Promise me you will watch yourself.”
