Page 25 of Ash

Cross had always been a man of few words, so I didn’t expect anything more.

After picking up my Mercedes, I drove to the courthouse well before Rafa and my client arrived.

I went through the process to get inside, then went to one of the small conference rooms to wait. When I was inside the quiet space, I dialed Francesca’s number.

“Grazie a Dio per te,” Francesca sighed when she answered. “I owe you, Ash.”

“Big time,” I agreed.

“Stronzate,” she muttered, calling bullshit. “Like I haven’t covered for your ass before.”

“On a case this big? Nah.”

“Okay, I’ll give you that. This is the boss’s godson, and I don’t fancy being the next body floating in the East River.”

“So you put that on me, huh?”

Francesca laughed. “Oh, shut up, big shot. I gave you everything you need to wrap this up with a neat little bow on it. Assuming you’re still as good at handling a jury as you used to be.”

I scoffed. “Even if I had lost my touch, I’d still kick your ass in the courtroom, kid.”

“If you want to believe that, fine. Whatever it takes to get you to win this case.”

“Tell me what the file doesn’t,” I requested as I took a seat and put my feet up on the table.

After an hour, I was even more impressed than when I’d read the brief and notes for her strategy that she’d left for me.

“Excellent plan, Francesca.”

“Thanks. Now go execute it like the badass lawyer you are.”

“Done,” I replied before hanging up.

The defendant had been charged with possession of stolen property and conspiracy. What Francesca and I “didn’t” know was that the charges weren’t completely without merit. The southern branch of the DeLuca Crime Family focused primarily on smuggling art and antiquities.

The property in question was a shipment coming off a freighter from Italy. Bronson had been there to take possession of it, but the police had rolled in after the smugglers left and before Bronson had even laid a finger on the stolen artifacts.

They’d arrested him, and over the course of the trial, they’d nearly convinced the jury of his guilt. They’d skirted around illegal search and seizure by the skin of their teeth, keeping the case from being thrown out before it even began.

The prosecutor was a surprisingly good one, and he’d kept the jury from falling for Francesca’s attempts to insinuate that they fabricated evidence and had unreliable witnesses.

But Francesca had known she would lose on those points. They were setting up her long-term strategy.

She had been building a connection between them and Bronson. He even “tripped up” during his cross-examination, making himself appear lost and unsure and giving the jury the impression that the prosecutor was a bit of a bully and possibly coercing him into incriminating himself. She didn’t care what they thought of her as long as they liked Bronson.

After speaking with him for a few hours before our session was called, I was confident he knew what to do.

Rafa had sat quietly and listened the whole time. When we stood to leave, he shook my hand. “I’m impressed. Are you sure you don’t want to come work for me?”

I raised an eyebrow and met his stare. “You can’t afford me, Rafa.”

He laughed and turned to walk out of the room. “I don’t know about that,” he tossed back.

“I’m not going to pretend that my brotherhood never skirts the line, Rafa.” He stopped and looked back at me. “And I might create a false narrative for the jury to believe, but only through assumption. I will not lie in court.”

Rafa cocked his head and studied me for a moment. “Do you think Francesca would?”

He had me there. “No.”

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