The Score (The Russian Guns Book 3)

by Bethany-Kris

  “She didn’t accuse him,” the A.D.A said, ignoring Ivan’s rant. “She gave witness testimony to his guilt.”

  “But it’s the same thing,” Judge Kander said quietly. “Ivan is correct. Miss Berezin is technically accusing the defendant of a crime, or in a way, saying he gave her direct knowledge of his involvement because of their relationship. Consistently, the defendant has rebuffed her claims as falsehoods. Argue the details all you want, the end result will be the same. It’s not allowed in. You should have known better than to try.”

  Well, that was the end of that, wasn’t it?

  Apparently not.

  “However, if you can prove to me the witness’s disappearance was caused because of something the defendant is affiliated with,” the judge continued, shooting Anton a look from the side, “… I’ll allow it in.”

  Ivan smiled. “Well, I guess it’s a good thing they won’t find anything, huh?”

  ***

  In the courtroom, only Ivan sat beside Anton at the defendant’s table. At first, the press and media construed that as an unequipped legal team, given the high profile nature of the case and the charges he faced, but Anton knew better. Behind the scenes, Ivan’s entire firm worked on Anton’s case, though they kept quiet about it.

  Hours had been spent pouring over the prosecution’s joke of evidence. The best of the best in DNA experts were brought in to examine and rip apart the thirty-five percent match on the cigarette butts found at the Carducci crime scene. Ivan dedicated an entire group of paralegals just to work on reading over case transcripts from similar trials where the defence teams had won. What led to the win, how had they done it, and what could be gained for Anton’s trial.

  Oh, Anton had a legal team behind the scenes. No doubt about it. But in the courtroom, it was only Ivan.

  For a lawyer who was so convinced his client was going to walk out free of the charges he faced, Ivan didn’t leave a single damned thing to chance. Anton was grateful. It gave him something to ask about during the breaks in proceedings. With his wife at his side, it allowed them conversation that felt hopeful, not tarnished with the fear of prosecution.

  As the judge ordered, the trial resumed that following Monday. The prosecution used that entire week of proceedings to finish parading their witnesses and laying their evidence down for the judge to consider. Interestingly enough, their motive and case direction had changed. Without being able to use Natalie’s reasoning for why Anton killed Sonny Carducci and the Belovs, they had little to go on.

  Now, it was just greed, they said.

  Because Sonny had done Anton wrong. Well, that wasn’t a total lie.

  Because the Belovs stepped into his mafia’s territory. Well, that wasn’t exactly a lie, either.

  Unfortunately for the prosecution, everything about their case had holes that needed filled, now. They might have had the reasons, but they didn’t have the whys or the hows of it all. Instead of focusing on the holes, they attempted to dance around them.

  When the prosecution finally rested on that first Friday of September, Ivan took his chance to zone in on every hole and misconception, every little inconsistency the other side refused to acknowledge, and he opened it up.

  He opened it up wide.

  The degraded DNA on the cigarettes was an easy enough thing to argue with an expert specialist brought in to explain the actual statistics of the match’s probability. At thirty-five percent with the amount of Russian heritage in New York, he told the court, there could have easily been another few hundred or more men in the state who owned that sample. To pin it down to just Anton, and say it could only be his, was laughable and unrealistic.

  Reasonable doubt.

  Anton lived for those two words. They were, essentially, what held his freedom.

  Suddenly, Anton was made aware that public opinion was beginning to change. Even though he didn’t have access to see the legal shows or read the papers covering his trial, mostly because he didn’t want to, Ivan and Viviana kept him well enough informed about it all.

  The question was asked, was he guilty? It was likely. But had the prosecution done their job? That was the more important question. The people didn’t think they had. Anton knew better than anyone it wasn’t the people who decided for him, though. It was only the judge.

  Hadn’t Ivan said the man would be partial to them?

  Anton still wasn’t quite sure what to make of that

  There was a great deal of speculation about whether or not Anton would take the stand on his own behalf. It was a choice Ivan offered to him, and his lawyer was open and honest about the benefits and downsides. Eventually, Anton chose to say no. For one, he had done what they were accusing him of, and for two, neither he nor Ivan wanted to give the prosecution a chance to question him on the many things Anton refused to speak about when they and the federal agents tried before.

  However, what Anton never expected, and wasn’t informed about, was that his wife would take the stand. Anton barely held himself back from punching Ivan in the back of the head when he called Viviana as his final witness one week after he began his case. Sitting in his chair, teeth clenched and fists hiding in his lap, Anton practically vibrated in his rage.

  “Ivan,” Anton hissed under his breath when his lawyer sat back down at their table. He didn’t let the anger in his tone simper for a second. The damned lawyer wasn’t even standing while Viviana was sworn in. “What in the fuck—”

  “Trust me,” Ivan murmured. “Anton, you have to trust me.”

  Throughout the trial, Viviana had been Anton’s solid ground. She sat only five feet behind his defence table, close enough for him to turn around and reach out to hold her hand if he wanted, although it wasn’t allowed. Even so, it was close enough that he could smell her sweet rose perfume hinting around the edges of his senses, calming him when something pissed him off. She was close enough to whisper his name and make every nerve in his body react to the sound of her silken voice in a large, hostile room.

  Every single day she was there. Without fail.

  Now, she was much too far away and in a place Anton never wanted to see her.

  Standing in front of a deadly quiet room, Viviana appeared composed and unbothered by the sudden attention of one-hundred or more pairs of eyes all on her. For the most part, she’d always dressed to hide the growth of her pregnancy, but today the knee-length pencil skirt and white blouse showed off her twenty-one week swell beautifully. Add in her delicate hand cradling low along her midsection, and Anton was pretty sure every gaze in the room was trained on the tiny roundness Viviana held.

  There was no quake in her composure, no crack in the mask.

  And God, she was so painfully fucking beautiful to Anton.

  Beating back the rising emotions and worry, Anton rested back into his chair with a shaky breath. Ivan still hadn’t moved from his spot, either, reading over papers in front of him.

  Once she was sitting in the witness chair, the eyes of the people around them, were drawn to Viviana’s beautiful face instead of her stomach. Ivan went through the usual round of questions. Her name for the court records. Her relationship and affiliation to Anton. A brief history of their marriage. Ivan even asked a few things about Demyan, and her current pregnancy.

  “You are the niece of the deceased Sonny Carducci, correct?” Ivan asked.

  Viviana barely glanced up through her lashes as she answered, “Yes.”

  “Were you close with your uncle?”

  “No.”

  “Why was that?”

  Viviana cracked a smile, one that left a bitter taste in Anton’s mouth. “It’s hard to be close to a man who wants to kill you.”

  A pin could have dropped and it would have echoed.

  Ivan tilted his head to the side, sighing. “Your uncle, like your father, was affiliated with the Cosa Nostra, correct?”

  “They never openly admitted that in court records,” Viviana replied softly. “So I can’t confirm for sure that they
were.”

  “But you know what you witnessed growing up,” Ivan prodded. “You know what you heard, and what you’ve been told that are fact.”

  For the first time, Viviana tensed. “Yes.”

  “And what was that?”

  “They were not affiliated, they were it,” she answered.

  “The ruling Cosa Nostra family in New York.”

  “Yes. There’s a difference between affiliation and being a member. As far as I understood, my father had been the boss of his family from the time he was in his early twenties. My uncle then took over his position years later.”

  “After your father’s death,” Ivan finished for Viviana.

  “Right after.”

  “What do you know about the incident surrounding Roman Carducci’s death?”

  Finally, the prosecution stood. “Objection. Relevance to Mr. Avdonin and this case in particular?”

  Ivan sneered to the side. “Anton isn’t the only person on trial here, like it or not. The circumstances we’re discussing lays out Sonny Carducci’s character. This is the first family member willing to openly speak about the deceased.”

  The judge seemed all too interested in the wood grain of his gravel as he muttered, “I’ll allow it.”

  “Vine?” Ivan asked, repeating his earlier question.

  “I know he killed my father,” Viviana said quietly, refusing to look up again.

  “Objection! Speculation, that was never proven and the deceased was never charged for that crime.”

  “Mrs. Avdonin,” the judge began hesitantly, “… please refrain from speculating on events—”

  “I was on the phone when he murdered my father. I heard him kill him. I heard what happened afterwards. That’s not speculation, that’s fact,” Viviana interrupted coolly. “I listened while he taunted my father, when he forced him to his knees, and then when he pulled the trigger. And after … would you like to know what happened after, too?”

  No one said a word. Viviana had turned in her chair to face not the courtroom, but only the judge. Even the A.D.A sat back down in his chair, speechless. Judge Kander’s eyes widened right along with his mouth. Anton’s fists had squeezed so tight in his lap, his fingernails were beginning to break the skin. This was not the kind of information Viviana should be sharing. It was more than just dangerous for her to.

  “Um … No, thank you,” the judge stuttered. “Mr. Lavrov, move to something different, please.”

  “Not a problem,” Ivan said, grinning. “Mrs. Avdonin, was that why you say your uncle wished to kill you?”

  “I was a liability. No witnesses,” Viviana responded, turning back in her chair. “Those are the expectations of that lifestyle.”

  “Yet, here you are.”

  Viviana shrugged. “Someone got him first.”

  Ivan continued with his questions, moving on to different topics revolving around Anton, the bomb incident, and Viviana’s memories of that day. She didn’t have many, and like Anton knew, couldn’t accurately deny or verify his presence at the hospital for that day, or most of that night. There had been staff from the hospital brought in earlier in the trial for the prosecution who said Anton never was there, and there were others brought in by Ivan who swore up and down Anton never left his wife’s side.

  It was a he said, she said, and Viviana didn’t add or take away from it.

  Again, reasonable doubt.

  Ivan questioned Viviana on many things, from asking if she’d ever found a gun or drugs in the home she shared with her husband, to delving deeper and asking if Anton had ever shared information with her about his alleged trafficking business. On both accounts, Anton never did—he was always careful in that regard, and this was exactly why.

  Then, there were the questions everyone was waiting for, the ones Ivan never asked. He didn’t even dance around them, or suggest he might bring the topic up. The Belovs. Anton couldn’t figure out why. Never once did Viviana lie, though. She didn’t have to with the way Ivan phrased his questions and directed them on certain topics.

  So, when Ivan thanked Viviana and ended his questioning, the prosecution stood. Anton watched his wife visibly tense at the onslaught everyone knew was sure to come.

  “Do you still recognize your maiden name, Mrs. Avdonin?” the A.D.A asked. “Or use it, in any capacity?”

  “Carducci? No.”

  “Why is that?”

  Viviana frowned, her gaze skipping to Anton’s momentarily. “When I married my husband, I took all the parts of him, including that one.”

  The A.D.A rounded his table, training his sights on Viviana like a predator. Anton had all he could do to stay seated and remain silent. The last thing he wanted, or needed, was to watch his wife be attacked in the way this man would do to her.

  “It has nothing to do with the fact that Nicoli Avdonin is your biological father, correct?”

  Viviana didn’t even blink a lash. “I never knew that he was my biological father until much later in life and by then he had already passed on. So, no. I would say not.”

  “Who were the first people you admitted the truth of your paternity to?” the man questioned, picking at his fingernails with disinterest.

  Again, Viviana tensed, swallowing nervously. “From what I can remember of that day, I believe it was two federal agents who accosted me in my hospital room while I was still heavily medicated and in a great deal of pain after the bomb incident.”

  Well done, Vine, Anton thought, wishing his wife could hear him. Not only had she answered the question, but she’d done it in such a way that it didn’t exactly look well on the agents for the time they chose to question her.

  “Was your husband there at that time, Mrs. Avdonin?”

  Viviana blew out a breath, shrugging one shoulder. “While I was half asleep, high on morphine, and he was also exhausted? No, I think he was wandering the halls to keep awake. But it’s hard to remember through the fog that day created. Anton doesn’t sleep when he worries. I do recall Ivan coming in before the agents left, though, if you were going to ask.”

  “I wasn’t,” the man stated dully. “And these agents … what else did you tell them?”

  “I’m not sure what you—”

  “About your father, specially. Roman, I mean. Not Nicoli.”

  “Again, I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “They questioned you on the circumstances of his death, did they not?”

  “They did,” Viviana confirmed quietly. “I told them the same story I told everyone for my own protection.”

  “That Sonny had nothing to do with Roman’s death.”

  Viviana nodded once. “Sure.”

  “Yet, today you changed your stance on that. You were questioned twice before that on the matter, and kept to the same story. They offered you protection from your uncle, if that’s what you needed. Today, suddenly it’s different, and no one is offering you protection—”

  “Is there a question here?” Ivan interrupted sharply. “Because otherwise, he’s standing on a soapbox I’m getting tired of.”

  Anton’s desire to punch Ivan lessened.

  The A.D.A shook his head. “No, just observing.”

  “Then move on,” the judge barked.

  “Fine,” the man drawled, turning his attention back to Anton’s wife. “Viviana … or can I call you Vine, as your husband’s lawyer did?”

  “Viviana is perfectly fine,” she replied shortly.

  “Oh, Vine is only reserved for those you know well, hmm?”

  Ivan’s pen dropped from his hand. “Objection!”

  “Withdrawn.”

  The judge raised a brow, scowling in the A.D.A’s direction. “Mr. Penny, don’t start playing games with witnesses in my courtroom, or your questioning will end.”

  “Vine is reserved for those who know me,” Viviana said firmly, ignoring the outbursts around her. “And you’re certainly not one of them, sir.”

  God, Anton loved his fucking wife.

 
The A.D.A went back to questioning Viviana on the day of the bomb, repeatedly challenging her memory of Anton’s presence. He even went as far as to challenge the dosage of her medication, claiming it wasn’t enough to affect her memory, let alone cause it to diminish. Viviana, very sweetly with her eyes drawn down to her stomach, asked if the whack she took to the head when she hit the pavement could have done it instead.

  The man didn’t respond, but then again, he wasn’t the one being questioned.

  When he finally decided he was going to get nothing from that, he moved onto Viviana’s knowledge of Anton’s businesses, his affiliation with the Bratva, his family history, and so on. For forty minutes, the man slammed accusatory question, after hostile claim at Anton’s wife. With each one, Anton felt his back straighten a little more, his muscles tighten like coils ready to break.

  There was only so much a man could take, after all.

  Viviana, however, took it all in stride.

  Then, one question really pricked at him …

  “Did you husband ever tell you he thought Sonny Carducci should die?”

  Viviana stilled in her chair, looking up from under her lashes. “Yes.”

  “And what did you say, Mrs. Avdonin?”

  “I agreed, I imagine. I can’t remember for sure, but I know how I felt about my uncle and the danger he posed.”

  “Did you husband ever tell you he killed Sonny?” the A.D.A asked.

  “No.”

  “Mrs. Avdonin, let me remind you that you are under oath. When your uncle was murdered, you were not married to your husband and wouldn’t be for another month. Whatever was shared between the two of you in that time period was in no way protected by spousal—”

  “I’m aware of that,” Viviana interjected, keeping her tone calm. “And as I said, no, Anton did not ever tell me he killed my uncle. Not before we were married, and not after.”