Page 36 of Daring You

“From Chavez.”

A small spot at the center of my chest goes cold. Enrique Chavez is a known crime lord in NYC, a slick, laid back man who Altin Yang has drinks with on the regular. Chavez pays us an expensive monthly retainer, so if any of his crew are arrested, someone here is ready to defend them.

We get a lot of business from the Chavez cartel.

I’ve only seen him a few times, but at each click of our eyes against each other, I sense he’s more an adder ready to strike than a human being. There’s nothing behind the black of his irises, except more black. He’s a very rich, very dangerous man, and if he’s involved in the Staten Island Slaughters—he’s likely already deeply involved with these defendants.

“Shit,” I say.

I’ll never say it to his face, but perhaps Ben is right and I should stay far away.

My talents are usually reserved for mergers, acquisitions, and financial problems on the corporate side of things. But, as a junior associate, I can traverse departments so the partners can see where I really shine, before solidifying myself in one particular subject. And witnessing Mike beside Altin, deploying a closed-mouth grin at the rest of us like he’s already one of the two juniors picked to assist, makes my teeth hurt.

“Who’s prosecuting?” I ask in the small space of silence.

All eyes and feet shuffle toward me. A small pathway emerges with Yang at the other end.

“I’m glad you asked, Miss Hayes,” Yang says with approval. “As it’s always better to know your enemy before you meet him. We’ve got a file on him, too. Spencer Rolfe.”

Grumbles abound, and even I make a sound in my throat. He’s a well-known, young and hungry prosecutor six years older than me. Barely thirty and already making a name for himself.

“All right, people,” Yang says, and slaps his palms on the two piles of paper and files in front of him. “Here’s how this is going to go. The first people to bring me a weakness in this case—and I don’t mean some crap like self-defense—will be seated with my team. Give me something meaty. Something I can sink my fangs into. First two to do that, you’re in.”

Yang backs away from the large table and leaves the conference room without so much as a look back.

As soon as the glass door shuts and he’s out of view, we descend onto the files like vultures.

Hands swipe, but Taryn and I have the sharpest nails. We grab what we can, and I’ve got my fingers on the crime scene file when a thick, hairy, perfectly manicured paw grabs my wrist.

“Hey—!”

“We should work on this together,” Mike says, cutting off any further protest from me.

I laugh. “Sorry, what? Did you say work as a team? Do you even know what that means?”

He leans closer, hand still squeezing my wrist, and I cover a grimace. As far as everyone knows in this room, we’re still a happy couple.

“You’re well aware of what our two heads together can accomplish,” he murmurs. “Don’t you want to lay waste to these other hacks?”

“Too bad you can only think with your little head,” I snap, and pull out of his hold. “I’ve already agreed to team up with Taryn. You’re on your own, Ascott.”

Taryn glances between us, too smart to believe we’re still that happy couple. “Uh…sure?”

Mike shakes his head and laughs. “You’re putting our personal life before nailing the best case of your short-lived career. That’s a mistake, Hayes.”

God, am I ever tired of hearing that word. Mistake. “I’ll make sure to remind you of that when I’m sitting beside Yang on Monday.”

“Uh-huh.” Mike rolls his eyes. I’d be stupid to think I hurt his feelings, because his attention immediately slides over me and rests lightly on Taryn’s breasts before he yells across the room. “Yo DeSean, you in?”

Another junior, DeSean Ferguson, throws his arm up, gripping the ADA’s file and a few police transcripts. “I’m in like win, Ascott! Let’s go.”

“Your loss, honey,” Mike says, then puckers his lips and blows me a kiss before moving to his new teammate.

“I don’t know why Yang makes us do this,” Taryn says. “When everything’s available on the company database.”

Hands on her hips, she sighs as associates continue to scramble around on the table (some even on it), a sign of what cutthroat competition can do to Ivy League educated desperados. The sounds of yelling and papers tearing ricochets against the small space.

“Because we’re baby sharks in the womb,” I say, “and we have to eat a few of our siblings before bursting out into saltwater. C’mon, let’s go to my cubicle.”

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