Seneca cut me off, his jaw going hard. “My brother’s a junkie. I keep him alive because nobody else will. My father was a bastard, beat my mom when I was sixteen. I put a bullet in his head before he could do it to us. Court called it self-defense, but I know better.”
I closed my hand over his, holding it to my cheek. “You never told anyone that, did you?”
He shook his head. “Didn’t need to.”
We stayed like that, unmoving, breathing the same air. My heart raced with every confession, as if each one was a test of how much truth I could survive.
“Sometimes,” I said, “I sentence men harder because they remind me of my father. Or my grandfather. Or all the uncles who taught me how to break bones with a phone book.”
He laughed, a short huff of air, and then his mouth found my shoulder. He kissed the bruise he’d left earlier, then let his lips rest there. “You’re not like them.”
I wanted to believe it. I wanted to be something new, something unscripted. But the Bellini name was a curse you never really outgrew.
“You ever wish you’d done something else?” I asked, voice muffled in the curve of his neck.
He shrugged. “When I was in the sandbox, I wanted to be dead. After that, I just wanted a reason to wake up. The club gave me that. The men are my brothers. We had each others' back. ”
I ran my hand down his chest, feeling the thick thump of his heart, the way it sped up under my palm. “And now?”
He looked at me, eyes gone soft and unguarded. “Now I want to see what happens next.”
I let the silence stretch, comfortable for the first time in months. I studied the way our bodies fit together, how the sweat had dried on our skin, how the scent of sex and smoke and blood had mingled until there was no telling where he ended and I began.
I squeezed his hand, then laced our fingers together. “You know this is insane.”
He nodded. “Yeah.”
“I could destroy you.”
He smiled, not afraid. “Or you could save me.”
I wanted to believe in saving. I wanted to believe in anything. But the world outside was waiting, and the only thing I knew for sure was that neither of us could go back.
He pulled me closer, wrapping his arms around my back, and I let myself be held. For a long while, we said nothing, just breathed each other in, sharing the quiet the way most people shared secrets.
“My name is Catherine,” I said, finally, like it was a confession.
“I know,” he replied.
We drifted, together and alone, fingers tight, hearts thudding, the ghosts of our families hovering somewhere just beyond the reach of dawn.
Chapter ten
Jenna
Four thirty-seven a.m., and the crime scene tape fluttered in the breeze, yellow against the black. I watched the perimeter from the safety of my Civic’s dead spot between streetlamps. Cops were half asleep, cradling coffee, hoods up against the cold. I’d known most of these guys since they were running citations on expired plates. Not one would peg me as a threat. They all saw what I wanted them to. A defense attorney with polished nails, a reputation for "ethics," and the one who never called in favors unless the law required it.
Tonight, I was running a different script.
I pulled my hair back and twisted it into a knot. I stepped out of the car, phone in hand, eyes already down, as if the paperwork I’d been summoned to review was so urgent the cold didn’t register. I didn’t so much as glance at the front cop, just walked through the tape like I belonged.
“Counselor Smart?” He pronounced it as if unsure. “The house isn’t cleared yet.”
I shot him a look of mild irritation, more annoyed at the inconvenience than the bloodshed. “They paged me fortyminutes ago. If you’d like to tell Judge Bellini you made me wait, I’ll start dialing.”
He held up both hands, palms out. “No, ma’am. It’s just—it’s bad in there. I wouldn’t want to be—” He trailed off, rereading my badge.
I gave a performance sigh. “Don’t worry about me,” I said, and breezed past.
