Page 34 of Zade (Den of Sin)

I pull her into my arms, “Please forgive me.”

She pushes away from me, “Amira,” I choke out, but she turns away from me. She walks to her room, leaving me with nothing except self-loathing.

ChapterTwenty

ZADE

Loving someone you cannot have is difficult. Living with them is miserable. Amira is everything I would want if she were older and not my damn stepdaughter. Doing the right thing has never felt so wrong before. I’m not the kind of man that would normally give a shit. I do things every day that most people would find unacceptable. But not this. I swore I’d always take care of her. Since I met her when she was an infant I’ve done nothing less. She is the single reason I kept her mother in a home with her expenses paid. I didn’t owe my ex-wife a damn thing but Amira, I owed her everything. The first time I held her I knew we’d have a bond that could never be broken. I imagined always being in her life but I never for once thought about fucking her. Ever. Had I, I probably would’ve checked myself into a psychiatric hospital. Or had myself locked away in the state prison for life.

I never should’ve fucked her. I don’t regret buying her at the auction because I never could’ve let another man have her but the line we crossed, we shouldn’t have. I was a selfish bastard. I wanted to fuck her so I let the money be the excuse. Now, I hurt the one person who means the world to me. I’ll make it up to her, she’ll forget her fascination with me, I just don’t know how long that will take. Fuck. I hate that I did this to her. I hate that I can’t stop thinking about being inside her. She said she wanted me to ruin her but it’s her that ruined me. Without even trying I know no other woman will measure up to Amira.

I spent the majority of my night listening to her cry which is officially my least favorite thing to do. Several times I had to stop myself from breaking down her door and holding her. How can you possibly be the one to ease the pain when you’re the one responsible for it?

I bring her breakfast and knock on her door, “Amira, I brought you breakfast.”

She doesn’t open it, instead, she says, “Leave it outside. I’ll get it after you leave.”

I sigh audibly while holding her tray with pancakes, bacon, and strawberries, “I would like to see you before I leave for work.”

Still, the door stays closed, “We don’t always get what we want, Zade. You taught me that.”

“Alright, text me if you need anything.”

She doesn’t respond so I place her tray on the floor and walk away to go to work. I fucking hate this. It’s hell. A hell of my own making. Still, I can’t make myself regret it entirely. Of course, I wish I hadn’t hurt her. Knowing the taste of her on my lips, the feeling of her pussy gripping my cock, the sounds she made for me, it’s all a memory I will replay in my mind thousands of times.

As I drive to the courthouse I try to push Amira from my thoughts and focus on what I need to do today. I don’t represent the good guys. Frequently, I get them off by finding things that have nothing to do with whether or not they committed the crime. I have six private investigators in my employ, they dig and find what I need. Juror number six is a fucking idiot. After my client went on a murderous tirade in court,sixtook toTikTok. Of course, he concealed his identity or at least tried to but it was clear as day who it was. In the video, he wore the same oversized cross around his neck that he’s had on every day since I first saw him during jury selection. In the video, he admitted he was a juror but didn’t identify what his juror number was, but went on a rant and said that he knew my client, Luis Garza, was guilty during our selection process. He continued and said he read every news article on the case and couldn’t wait to put the piece of shit behind bars for life. Two things are going to happen. First, I’ll file a motion for mistrial based on juror misconduct. And second,Sixis going to die. Again, I don’t represent the good guys. There is not a single chance that Garza will let this go. The funny thing Six may not realize is he is a dead man walking regardless of the outcome of this case. Garza doesn’t need to be a free man to end this idiot’s life. He’s been in jail awaiting trial for eight months and has been conducting business while behind bars. It’s an inconvenience, to say the least, but it happens all the time. When mafia men, cartels, gangs, and all the bad guys go to prison business doesn’t stop unless the entire organization is behind bars, which has never happened.

I park my vehicle and make my way into the courthouse. Placing my briefcase on the conveyor belt, I toss my keys and wallet into the gray bin and go through security, nodding a good morning to Stephen who has worked at this courthouse since he was a young man. He’s in his seventies now with graying hair and bushy matching eyebrows. Stephen is a man of few words and today is no different than any other. He’s silent as I grab my briefcase, wallet, and keys and head to the courtroom.

I’m confident things will go my way today however, there is always the possibility that the judge will tell me to take it up on appeal, which of course I would. I don’t like losing. Garza losing his cool in open court the way he did would deserve a guilty verdict. That was a stupid fucking move. I’ve already told him he better not lay a finger on the witness because motive has been established after his little outburst.

I make my way into the courtroom and take a seat when the prosecutor, Mitch Walcott walks over to me, a smug look on his face, one that I can’t wait to wipe off.

“It’s not looking good for your client. Are you sure he doesn’t want to take the plea deal?”

I snicker, “I’m sure.”

He doesn’t know what I know,yet.

Mitch shrugs, “This is a death penalty case and you’re playing with your client’s life.”

I ignore him as he walks away because hopefully things go my way and the judge declares a mistrial. Regardless, death isn’t really on the table. My client could be sentenced to death but he’d likely die in prison without ever receiving a lethal injection. Nevada has only executed twelve people since 1976 and none since 2006. Garza dying by lethal injection is not a concern of mine. Of course, Walcott is simply doing his job. He thinks with Garza’s outburst that it’s a slam dunk, it’s not. Not by a fucking longshot.

My client is brought in wearing orange pants with a matching shirt. The jail here has different colors based on the offense. Most of the men I represent wear orange. That’s the color that they wear if they are considered to be a violent offender. Blue is reserved for non-violent misdemeanors. Green for those on suicide watch as well as protocol, which is for the men withdrawing from drugs.

He nods at me as he takes a seat. I glance at his folded hands on the table, “Fight?” I ask when I spot his wounded knuckles. They are bruised with dried blood on them.

Shaking my head, I whisper, “Please tell me nobody is dead,” I ask because that’s the last fucking thing I need with this case right now.

With a grin, he responds, “Not yet.”

Judge DeSoto enters the courtroom so we all rise.

“Good morning,” he says before he asks if anybody has any pressing matters before we begin for the day. After announcing my motion for mistrial, the bailiff comes over, picks up the paperwork, and hands it to the judge. He glances at the papers, then at the jury, then at me, and shakes his head.

“Escort the jury to the jury room,” the judge states before glancing back at me, “Both attorneys in my chambers.”

He slams down his gavel, “Court is in recess.”

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