I’d spent most of the night working on Catherine Bellini’s background and found some pretty interesting stuff.
Bellini was a black sheep. Her record began predictably. She attended Catholic school, had five older brothers, family restaurants in Yonkers, and a short stint in the state pageant circuit that ended in violent scandal. But she took a left turn hard and received a law degree at Cornell, clerked with a notorious anti-mob judge, then moved west after a firebomb nearly took out her uncle’s place. The woman had spent most of her adult life writing op-eds on gender and power in the justice system, the kind of thing that got you on local news if you were lucky and on a hit list if you weren’t. Her grandfather, one Antonio Bellini, was a legend back east; old Mafia, part of the first generation to go legit, or so they said. Truth was, the Bellinis just got smarter. They learned to keep their hands clean while cashing the same checks as ever.
Catherine was supposed to be the outlier, the reformer. But every photo I found of her in the archives, whether it was a wedding, a graduation, or a funeral, she stood dead center, surrounded by men who all looked like they could snap your neck for a parking spot. In some of the shots, those men had the same scar I’d seen on her hand, the faint white gleam of an old knife wound. It didn’t take a genius to see the pattern. Catherine had never left the family behind. They’d just given her a different weapon.
The front door opened again. Jenna stepped out, barefoot, hair mussed, holding two mugs of coffee. She wore nothing but an oversized t-shirt—probably Bellini’s, judging by the way it hung off her frame. She handed Bellini a mug, then leaned against her, shoulder to shoulder, the gesture easy and practiced.
They stood like that for a long minute, saying nothing. Just two people, alone in the world, finding the one place they could breathe. Bellini glanced down at Jenna and smiled wide. Jenna grinned back and touched Bellini’s face, tracing her cheek with a thumb.
I felt like a voyeur. Or maybe a ghost, watching a life I’d never have. I should have felt angry, or betrayed, or at least vindicated. But all I felt was tired. Tired, and a little jealous that two people could find that kind of peace, even if only for a morning.
They kissed, soft and slow, no spectacle. Then Bellini looked up, scanning the street with eyes that missed nothing. For a second, I thought she saw me. Maybe she did. She didn’t flinch, didn’t signal. She just wrapped an arm around Jenna’s waist and led her back inside. The door closed. The world kept moving.
I walked back to my bike, feeling the morning heat rise through the soles of my boots. The puzzle pieces fell into place. I now knew why the soft sentencing, the warnings, the way Jenna had fought for me in court like she was defending her own life. The real story wasn’t in the files or the mugshots. It was right there, on a porch in the suburbs, hidden behind the oldest trick in the book. Love was like that.
I straddled the bike and started the engine, letting the idle rumble through my bones. It no longer mattered who was playing whom. I knew where the lines were drawn, and I knew which side I was on.
Chapter five
Catherine
The doorbell rang at 5:59, one minute ahead of schedule. I wiped my palms on my skirt and forced my mouth into a shape approximating welcome. When I opened the door, Jenna stood framed in the doorway, blazer unbuttoned, her hair pinned. She held a folder in one hand and a bottle of red in the other, the label already torn at the seam. She knew the right buttons to push.
“Judicial hospitality,” she said, holding up the bottle.
I stepped aside to let her in. “You know that’s a bribe, right?”
“Technically, I paid off your fine last week,” she replied, a smile twitching at the corner of her mouth. “This is just insurance.”
She swept into the living room, her hips swaying just enough to draw my eye, then set her things down on the coffee table with a deliberate bend that lingered. The effect she had on the space was immediate; the air between us tightened with familiar electricity. When she straightened, her fingers trailed the edge of the table. Jenna had that kind of presence. I'd once watchedher reduce a stammering DA to silence with nothing but a slow crossing of her legs and the smallest bite of her lower lip.
She pulled off her blazer with a slow roll of her shoulders and draped it over the arm of the sofa, watching me the whole time. The blouse underneath was blue silk, nearly sheer in the backlight, and tucked into a skirt that matched mine in both length but not in how it hugged her curves. She caught me staring, let her gaze linger on my lips before meeting my eyes, and arched one brow. "You going to get glasses," she said, voice dropping to that register she knows I can't resist, "or are we sharing from the bottle like old times?"
I managed a laugh. “You’d lose respect for me if I did.”
“Doubtful,” she said, but I saw her teeth flash before she set the bottle down.
I fetched two of my grandfather’s heavy cut-glass tumblers from the cabinet. No stemware in this house. I poured, handed one off, and sat opposite her, the desert sun lighting a halo around her head and throwing my own face into shadow. She opened the folder and spread the contents with both hands, smoothing the edges flat with the tenderness of a surgeon prepping a body.
“Case review?” I asked, nodding to the papers.
“Just making sure you’re still uncorrupted by outlaw romance,” Jenna said, voice mild but eyes sharp. “The Bloody Scythes want a continuance on another case. New representation on the calendar tomorrow. DA is trying to move up the arraignment for that stolen bike ring.”
I took a sip, letting the wine chase the acid off my tongue. “The Scythes don’t change tactics. They just change messengers. Did they threaten the DA again?”
Jenna shrugged, folding her hands atop the printouts. “Not yet. They might be distracted.”
I watched her, waiting for the pivot. It came fast.
“I saw Wallace at the courthouse,” she said, tapping the rim of her glass with a manicured nail. “He looked good. No fresh bruises.”
I kept my face blank, but I felt the skin at the base of my throat prickling. “I gave him the minimum. The board will call it a wrist slap.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Jenna leaned forward, her scent close and sharp. It was lemon, ink, and a trace of the perfume I’d gotten her for her last birthday. “You should have recused.”
It was my turn to smile, sharp and flat. “On what grounds? He’s not family. He’s barely even a local.”
“You know what grounds,” she said. The words landed with the precision of a blade. “You should have seen how you looked at him in court.”
