Page 3 of Captive Mafia Wife

You can’t give what you don’t have.

Chapter Two

A FEW WEEKS EARLIER, ON ALL HALLOWS EVE…

Freya

My frenemy Patrick Patersonruns a hand over his square jaw as he eyes my client. “So, you’re telling me that on the night in question, the one where youclaimyour boyfriend attempted to accost you, you had on…areddress? One that the jury can clearly see resembles a nightgown more than an outfit. Wouldn’t a woman wear a dress like that in order to seduce her man, to make him?—”

“My Lord, surely my learned colleague is not implying something derogatory about my client!” I’m seething. It’s the old boys’ club’s defense, placing a female victim at fault for her own murder or assault because her skirt was too short. I know Patrick isn’t this backward of a thinker; he’s a staunch feminist, but he’ll do anything to win.

Raised an islander, I’m not willing to compromise mymorals. My values enter those imposing courtroom doors with me and stick. I will win.

I pop up from my chair and flip my icy blonde hair over my shoulder to prove my point. “My client’s outfit has nothing to do with this case. Surely, we have evolved from the days when we judge someone’s character by their looks. Or their clothing.” I shift my weight, bringing attention to the stilettos I wear. “I love fashion. It doesn’t make me a dummy. I had to work my ass?—”

“Language, Ms. Burnes.”

“I apologize, my Lord. I meant that I’ve worked hard to become successful enough to purchase this black Gucci suit I wear.” There are six women on the twelve-member jury in this civil case. I eye them all. “And it looks good, right?”

I get a few nods and smiles from the more progressive women. And poison darts from two others, clutching their pearls as they shake their heads at my red-soled shoes and the fact that I wear nothing underneath the buttoned suit jacket.

“My Lord, may I say, I don’t dress like this for any man.” I stress my point while trying to invalidate Patrick’s. “I do it for myself. Because I like how I look. I feel good. I feel like myself, my Lord. But in doing so, I am not inviting assault. Grown adults should be able to exercise self-control.”

The white-haired judge gives a heavy sigh. “Yes, I believe you are most likely correct, Ms. Burnes. Let us move on, Mr. Paterson.”

“Thank you, my Lord.” I hide the victorious smile that lights up my insides.

Patrick moves on. I sink back down in my seat. The judges are all starting to get used to me. The male lawyers know me by now; dare I say, they’ve stopped admiring my calves openly.

On the floor of the courtroom, they’re starting to fear me.

Later, when we’re done for the day, I sail past Patrick, pulling my coat tighter around me in the fall breeze, eager to get home and change into my costume. Pretty autumn leaves swirl around us.

He reaches out, snapping a leaf up between a finger and thumb. He hands it to me. “For you, my dear.”

“Thanks.” I take the pretty leaf, twirling it between my fingers. Red with gold tips. Once we step into the fresh air and onto the concrete steps at the front of the courthouse, we’re no longer enemies. The solicitor crowd in Glasgow is close—brutal warriors by day, partners in partying by night. “You’re still coming tonight? Even though I kicked your ass in there?”

He raises his brows jokingly. “Isn’t All Hallows Eve a night for prayer and fasting?”

“Nope,” I say. “Drinking and debauchery.”

“Freya, Freya, Freya. You’re going to be the death of me.” He gives a deep groan and rolls his eyes. “Of course, I’ll be there. I would never miss the Annual Burnes Bash. I’ll be the cowboy in the black leather chaps for your Samhain party.”

I wince at his words. Samhain is what we Scots call Halloween, but I find All Hallows Eve so much more spectacular for the name of the most important night of the year.

I let it slide.

“Yeehaw, hawt cowboy!” I stretch upward, pecking a platonic farewell kiss on his cheek. “See you tonight!”

Home again, I dive into costume preparations, my sister-in-law Fiona and I talking animatedly as I do our collective makeup. She hurries off to change, and I quickly dress. Time is ticking by, and guests will be here soon.

Fully ready in ten minutes, I strut down the hall like it’s a London catwalk. “I am feeling myself in this costume!”

At the top of our double spiral staircase, I lean down to check my reflection in the spiderweb-covered mirror. This year, I’m wearing a black, long-sleeved dress with the word PURPLE written down the center of my body. Three white lines stretch across both my collarbone and kneecaps, and calf leather, soft-as-velvet knee-high boots streamline the black casing of my marker costume.

My bright purple wig tilts on my head, and I reach up to straighten it.

“Perfect in purple.” I give myself a nod.

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