by James, Ella
He puts his hand over mine.
“You want to go home?” I whisper.
He shuts his eyes. “I’ll get a cab,” he says as he looks back up at me. He looks sleepy, my drunken teetotaler. “Gotta play some poker with your dad first.”
“Fuck my father.”
He gets to his feet, only swaying a little. “I don’t think so.”
“Fuck someone else then.”
He looks mysterious and sad and tragic, gorgeous Luca in his bespoke tux, standing in front of me, framed by the skyline. “Take your own advice,” he tells me with a small smile.
“I intend to.”
I take his big, warm hand in mine and stroke my fingers over his wrist. In the elevator, he looks at my face. His blue eyes are glazed.
“You okay to get home?”
He smirks. “More likely to get there than you.”
I sigh, aiming for sad and dramatic. “That’s because you won’t fuck me.”
“I thought I’m your brother, sorella.”
I give him a wicked grin, and he looks down, shaking his head. He’s shy. Nobody knows it or would guess it, but sorello is so shy. I love it.
“Take care of yourself,” I say as the elevator opens.
He gives me a calculated grin, sort of sarcastic, like he thinks I’m being stupid. “Always,” he says. And we both know that’s a damn lie.
I watch as he heads in the direction of the kitchens, where some of his friends are. I’m thinking of his friend Leo—buff and yummy with a pair of different-colored eyes—when I watch Luca disappear; looks like he stepped into a windowed alcove off the hallway.
I creep around so I can watch him from behind one of those big, fluffy green plants people set up on their own pedestals. He’s just standing, looking out the darkened window, breathing so hard that his shoulders rise and fall.
As I step further behind the plant, he turns around, looks up, and then back down for a long moment.
I catch a glimpse of his profile as he starts down the hall. He looks perfectly composed. Sorello hides his secrets well. And don’t I know about that.
Untitled
Volume Two
“She who loves roses must be patient and not cry when she is pierced by thorns.”
-Sappho
4
Elise
FOURTEEN YEARS LATER
“My mother always said a woman should wear red. That’s because she didn’t go to law school. If she had, she would have known the safest colors for women in a position of authority are the muted ones: charcoal, navy, gray, black, beige, maybe deep maroon if the occasion is sexier than average.” I arch my brows. “Although they rarely are. Tonight, I’m breaking with my own tradition. Tonight, I earned the right to be up on this stage. We earned it.
“You elected me—an ‘Elise’—not a James or Matthew or a John—to be Manhattan’s district attorney in a historic win for female prosecutors. You helped me win with eighty-six percent of the vote. And so…tonight is our night. We’re the victors, so we’re wearing red.” My throat goes dry, just for a second, as the crowd before me glitters in a teary prism. A quick swallow fixes that, and I steady my voice so it doesn’t warble in the mic.
“I want to thank my team—all fifty-six of you, and many volunteers who never signed a work roster or gave your time and energy in return for a paycheck. I want to thank the people of Manhattan for trusting me to serve you thoughtfully and fairly, as I pledge to do as long as I hold this office…and beyond. I can’t not shout out my three queens: Sheree Johnston, Vanessa Heron, and Bhavna Singh, who ran my campaign like a machine even as I was splitting my time between my current post and looking toward this new one. Vanessa kept me on schedule, Sheree orchestrated logistics that would make the mortal mind implode, and Bhavana handled media relations with tact and class and the kind of grace we all might aspire to—while momming a new baby.”
I give the packed ballroom a big grin, swallow, and sweep the room with my gaze, appearing to be looking at people without actually doing so, lest I lose my dinner.
“Thank you. I don’t want to give an Oscars speech, but doors were opened for me that were closed to women before—and to some men, too. I’m both grateful and proud, on behalf of this great city. May justice reign, and may our monuments to greed and prejudice and lawlessness that masquerade as ‘just the system’ topple. I will push them over.” I pause—for exactly three Mississippis, then give a slight nod. “Thank you.”
The room erupts in a thunder of applause so loud it hurts my ears. And then people start to stand. The thunder becomes a roar. Someone whistles, and my eyes well. I’m about to lose it on stage.
I search the jam-packed ballroom for the infamous “one person” coaches tell you to lock onto and find a man at dead center. I can’t see his face or even much about his body for the bright lights in my eyes—just his head and shoulders a notch above the crowd.
There are more whistles, and then people in the bleachers start to stomp their metal footrests. “O-Hara! O-Hara! O-Hara…”
Mira, my girl operating the stage lights, must have E.S.P. Just as I start to drop some real tears, the spotlights leap off the stage and into the crowd. Back left corner…back right corner, front right, sweeping. I see so much blue and purple—campaign colors. My campaign colors.
I try to swallow, lock my eyes back on the guy as Mira beams him briefly. Man, she’s got a window into my mind. The spotlight zigs and zags and passes over him again—like the flickering of a film reel. Then, for one long second, it just rests. And my knees nearly buckle.
It…it can’t be.
But I think…I’m pretty sure…
That’s him.
He’s grinning with his head tipped back, arms out as he claps with such gusto, you’d think he just won D.A.
Another swirl of bright light near him, and the walls tighten around me.
Sweat pops out along my hairline as I tear my gaze away. It snaps back to him just like a magnet. I…don’t understand. My body flushes like I’m breaking a fever as the applause finally dies down.
Ree’s eyes catch mine. Now the light is back on us. The ceiling’s recessed lights brighten a notch. This is my cue to step back for Ree. She steps to the podium. My gaze boomerangs to that spot in the center of the crowd.
It’s Luca.
Now he’s fully visible. His shoulders look so broad. He’s wearing a dark suit. Something knots low in my belly, making my legs feel unsteady.
Why is he here? Why is he here?
He rubs a hand over his dark hair. He’s still as he listens to Ree. He’s just a dot, but he’s a larger one. I guess he’s on the…twelfth, eleventh row?
Silence, clapping…and the knot down in my belly tightens as Ree hands the mic to me and I resume my role, keeping my voice steady because it’s my job and I’m good at my job, dammit.
My body feels like wobbly Jell-O. I can’t breathe right. The lights brighten another notch as the departure music starts. I can feel excitement and momentum, all of it aimed toward me. This is it, the night I’ve worked toward for ten years. Things are moving too fast, my circle crowding around me, grinning, hugging. I grin back.
Words are spoken, information conveyed. I give hugs and thank the dozen people waiting in the wings. My heart beats heavy. I won’t go back to the podium, claiming I left something. We move off the stage as one big, happy group, and in the large green room, where I give another smiley speech.
But I can’t tear my mind away from grown-up Luca at my victory rally.
He’s my past—which I’ve done everything I can to hide. He’s my distraction and my dismay. He’s my job now.
If I’m the newly minted queen of law and order, Luca is the dark lord of the underworld. The second that I’m coronated, our kingdoms are officially at war.
* * *
“Those are some cojones.” Ree is shaking her head, looking mildly impressed even as she’s frowning out the window of our black car, no doubt silentl
y critiquing the poor driver. “If I had balls that big…” She shakes her head again. “I’d have some big balls.”
I can’t help a laugh-snort. “Um, you do have balls that big.”
She smushes her boobs together, making me laugh.
“Breasts,” she says in a TV commercial tone. “The better balls.”
I glance down at my own, hidden behind a chaste white silk blouse, which is covered by one of my trusty pantsuits. I went emerald green today, because I’m the D.A.-elect, dammit.
“You have the best rack,” she says, looking wistfully at my B-cup chest. “Also, what the fuck from him! I didn’t see him till the two of them were sneaking out that side door. I wasn’t sure if it was him. I haven’t seen him since the East River Bridge.”
I nod slowly. Ree was prepping for one of her weekend wars when she ran right past Luca…mm, I guess it was about six years ago. She went through a marathon phase right before we all turned thirty.
“My question is, was he a donor,” she says, “and we didn’t know?”
“If he was a donor, or even if he wasn’t—” I shake my head. “Does he think I’ll…favor him?”
Ree laughs harshly. “If he does, then he’s a fool. You got detailed for that work on the Armenian airport trafficking, so it’s clear to everyone who pays attention that you’re in this with your sleeves rolled up. If you were going to be lenient on someone, I don’t know why he thinks it’d be his ass.”
I nod again, brushing my thumb over one of my freshly manicured nails. Last year, when I was working under our outgoing D.A., I headed up a drug-trafficking task force which resulted in charges brought against some members of the Armenian mob. I found a threatening note taped to my car a few weeks after, which led to me being “detailed”—getting my own security detail—for nine weeks.
“Yeah…I guess he should know that.”
If he bothers keeping track of me. I don’t say that aloud, and Ree changes the subject. It’s not because she isn’t interested. It’s because she hates my first love with the fire of fourteen hells. I’m sure she’s already worrying about what will happen if he ends up in my crosshairs in any real way.
And maybe he will. I’m not holding my breath for it, though. I’ve heard people at the FBI call him The Houdini Don because he’s got a knack for staying off cameras and keeping himself and his people away from wiretaps. The D.A.’s office has long suspected there’s a mole on one of our teams, but it could just be lots of dirty cops in his court, helping him avoid detection on the pre-D.A. level.
We’ve got some data rolling in on some of the Armenians—enough that we have evidence that the Arnoldi family farms out certain hits to the Armenians, and the Armenians rely on Luca’s younger brother Soren for some of their financial services. It seems like the groups are somewhat symbiotic, but I’m not sure how far that reaches or how deep their loyalty runs. Probably not very.
“Maybe it was Isa who wanted to go.” I blink, startled by Ree’s voice in the quiet car—and by the reminder that Ree saw her with Luca.
“Uh, I kind of doubt it.”
“I think she’s more political than she lets on in that frou-frou Instagram of hers.” Ree looks affronted as she says the word “Instagram”—as if the whole platform is pure junk for only the most frivolous humans—but I note that she’s seen Isa’s big-deal profile.
I think about what little I’ve seen—gorgeous professional shots of gorgeous Isa climbing out of infinity pools in Spain and sprawled on yachts in Morocco—and my stomach tightens. “Who knows. For now, I’m taking it at face value. Just a newly elevated mob don and his predecessor’s model daughter seeking some excitement in good Gotham.”
Ree gives me a radiant smile, leaning her head against her chair’s headrest. “You’re pretty fly, Ms. D.A. Anybody ever tell you that?”
I look down at my lap, shaking my head. “Only the nicest, most supportive people.”
She laughs. “I still kind of can’t believe it. Goldfish in the big sea, baby.”
I look at my dear friend’s face—at her eyebrow ring and violet lipstick, at her high cheekbones and pert nose and wild halo of soft coils—and feel almost teary with gratitude for her—for the devotion, love, and genius that is Ree, a friend I’ve gotten to call mine since middle school. “Please never stop swimming with me.”
She reaches out and throws an arm around me. “Never ever.”
Our car pulls into the circle drive in front of the tall, beige stone Courts Building, and I squeeze her hard. “Thank you, Ree. For everything. Be nice to Cian when Dani sends her car to bring you to the TV interview this afternoon. You know he gets nervous when you evil-eye him, even if he can’t see your eyes. He can feel them.”
She bats her lashes. “These eyes don’t do evil.”
I laugh as I step out. “We both know that’s just a bald-faced lie.”
She squeezes her boobs discreetly, lifting an eyebrow, and I’m cracking up as I greet my escort.
“Hey, Jacey.” He smiles down at me, and I kiss his cheek. “You smell good this morning.”
He gives me a discreet sniff. “You smell even better…esquire.”
He winks before his arm encircles my lower back, and I lean against his chest for a long moment.
“How was last night after I left?” he asks softly.
“It was late.”
“I missed movie night,” he says.
“I missed it too. Next week for sure.”
We fall into our normal chatter as we pass through security and ride the elevator up to the fourteenth floor. It’s not until we step out into the wax-polished hall that I realize something feels weird.
“It’s really quiet in here.” I frown up and down the long, wide hallway. Jace shrugs, and we keep talking till we reach the double doors that mark the official domain of the Manhattan District Attorney’s Office.
“I’ll open this for you,” he says, pushing one open as if I’m a damsel in distress. I look around the sparsely appointed lobby, and my stomach flips—because it’s definitely empty, too.
There’s a little pop sound, like a balloon busted. Then my colleagues jump out from behind the furniture.
“Congratulations, D.A.!”
5
Luca
Two Weeks Later
“You’ve got calloused hands, bro.”
Max gives me a big smile as his forefinger thumps the inside of my palm.
I return the phony grin, even as I curl my fingers and hiss, “Shit, that hurt.”
With a black beanie covering his ears and forehead, and splotches of windburn on his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose, Max looks like some kind of arctic explorer. Which works, since we’re floating in the middle of Central Park Lake on the last day of the rowboat season, drifting between ice chunks.
“Yeah, no shit they’re calloused. What do you think I’ve been doing while you’re fucking your way through that harem and driving sports cars?”
I give him a look of shock, exaggerated but sincere.
“Sorry.” He ducks his head as another gust of frigid wind blows our boat toward a mini iceberg. “I guess that was too crass for your refined sensibilities.”
I arch a brow.
“Hey now, I’m the good guy,” he says. “Don’t forget it.”
I snort. “Sure you are.” Dude did a tour of Iraq and then went back again as some sort of private security worker. He’s been a cop with the NYPD for going on four years now, and I’m pretty sure he’s no more a good guy than the rest of them. Although I will concede that if they got paid good wages, maybe cops would be less hungry for dirty money.
“You wanna fuck this date up, brother?” Max asks. “Who you think’ll take you for a margarita?”
I laugh. “Hopefully nobody. I don’t like that weird green mix shit.”
He chuckles, and I let go of one of his hands to fuck with my scarf. Fuck, it’s cold. I rub my eye with one of my numb fingers. Even my eyeball feels half frozen. �
�So whatcha got for me on this fine Sunday?”
“Not that much,” he says, leaning in a little. He’s chewing spearmint gum, but I can still smell smoke on his clothes. “Just more of the same.” A white cloud of his minty breath floats into my face, making my eyes water. I blink and nod, because I’m eager to hear what he says next. “Like I told you Halloween, it’s a pretty decent treasure trove but not the best, I guess. Plenty on the…err, assets”—I side eye him, and he rolls his eyes—“and the movement all along your old route. I know you’re not using that now.”
I nod. Since he came to me with this about a month ago, I’ve had to change the whole damn system for my pink ops.
“I know that’s not trouble, not how some of the other shit is,” he says. “What they’ve also got is lots of money stuff, all tied to Soren, but there’s nothing like a smoking gun. They’re finding patterns, though, with certain accounts. They’ve got a couple logs of evidence surrounding all those pills you guys were bringing down from Canada in early ’19, info about one of your big ‘clients’—who they’re approaching about turning, by the way—and the start of something focused on where you’re getting all that good new PH.”
I blink, and he clarifies, “That’s H to you.” He lets go of my hand, rubbing his together. “What is that shit?” he asks. “Our paramedics took up poker to pass the time, and they’re sitting on a pile of unused Narcan.”
I grin. “Whatever they think they have on it, they don’t,” I say, referring to the cops and our H.
We’ve been running empty trucks through Tijuana for a couple months now. Leo leaves things sloppy by design, and I’m happy to see his plan worked. Let everybody watching think we’re still importing from Columbia. But we’re not heading south now for the white stuff. Hopefully never again. Way too much is going sideways down there.
