“Not bait,” I said. “Leverage.”
He sat back, bottle in hand. “Judge Bellini, you just might be crazier than any of us.”
I shrugged, and the motion hurt. “You ever try judging a mob trial in Yonkers?”
Seneca barked a laugh, then caught himself. “She’s Bellini, old blood.”
Nitro whistled. “Russo Bellini’s granddaughter?”
“That’s me,” I said, and this time I didn’t hide the pride or the threat in my voice.
Damron lifted his glass. “Well, shit. Welcome to the family.”
The other bikers had tuned in now, every eye on our corner. The tension had changed. Not softer, just more focused. I recognized the moment. It was like when a courtroom realized a witness was about to turn.
Seneca watched me, dark eyes unreadable. “You ready for this?”
“Doesn’t matter,” I said. “It’s happening either way.”
Nitro grinned again, the smile more genuine now. “It was starting to get boring around here.”
I nodded. “I wasn’t planning on giving you this kind of excitement. I’ve got better ways to spend my time.”
Damron pushed out of the booth, wiped his hands on his jeans, and headed for a back hallway. Seneca poured me another shot. I took it, grateful for the burn.
Nitro finished his drink and followed Damron.
“You did good,” Seneca said, voice low.
“I held it together.”
He shook his head, a little awe and a lot of respect in the gesture. “You more than held it together, Catherine.”
The way my name rolled off his lips made my skin tingle.
“After this is over,” he said, “what are you going to do?”
I thought of the bench, the robe, the legacy I’d tried so hard to build. I thought of the ruined house and the bodies piling up like bad decisions. “I don’t know,” I said. “But it won’t be what I was.”
He nodded, as if he understood. Maybe he did.
The room buzzed around us, the music starting again, rough and angry. I could feel the gaze of every man in the place, waiting to see what the judge would do next.
I took a breath, let the pain sharpen my focus, and decided I’d never be prey again.
Not here.
Not anywhere.
Nitro returned and motioned for us to follow him.
The meeting room was colder than the rest of the clubhouse, both in temperature and temperament. The walls were hung with more of the club’s history: black-and-white photos of men long dead, flags from charters that no longer existed, a display case filled with medals and what looked suspiciously like war trophies. The table was a single slab of wood, so wide and heavy I doubted it had ever left this room. At the far end sat Damron, flanked by his officers. Seneca took the last chair, and I sat along the wall, too used to being in the main chair.
Damron was reading when we entered, glasses perched on the end of his nose, eyes tracking every move. He didn’t look up. He didn’t need to.
“You sentenced one of ours last fall. Six to ten on a manslaughter beef,” Damron said, looking up from the sheet of paper.
I remembered. “Your man pled to avoid the needle.”
