Page 14 of Free to Judge
“I know you have enough money, so give me the license to market this. I can’t be the only one who should get a front row seat to the reality show you call your life.”
He snickers, a grudging smirk playing on his lips. “You’d cash in big if you could convince my family to star in one.”
“If even half your stories are true—especially the part about your relatives dancing on tables—the possibilities are endless. We’d wind up with a wild mashup ofSay Yes to the DressmeetsDancing with the Stars,” I retort.
“I tell no lies. Now, speaking of truth versus performance art, how’s your cover holding up?” Jon challenges.
I extend my arms, showcasing every seam of my impeccably tailored three-piece Brioni suit—a suit that costs as much as a down payment on a luxury car. It’s almost surreal to think that seven years ago I wouldn’t have known a Brioni from Macy’s nor would I have been close to a man of Jonathan Lockwood’s caliber. Yet today, both are lifelines that keep me in this brutal game we’ve orchestrated.
At least until I uncover the full, vile truth of who ordered the takedown of a federal agent. Sure as hell, he’s one of the few who know why I’m playing to begin with.
We reach my desk, and I collapse into the chair amid a chaotic mess of papers—a deliberate, explosive chaos that only I can decipher. Jon leans casually against the cubicle wall, his presence a welcome distraction from the looming tasks.
“You should see it firsthand,” he murmurs, as if the words barely carry the weight of impending doom.
My stomach churns. Part of me yearns to detach from this underworld of raw filth and ruthless brutality, yet another part trembles at the thought of feeling vulnerable at that table—a tempting reason to shatter my hard-won resolve.
“One day,” I reply diplomatically.
Jon arches an eyebrow, but before he can press further, a voice booms from down the hallway. “Look who finally decided to show up!”
I don’t even need to stand to know who it is. The combined silence and the way everyone snaps their mouths shut tells me all I need to know: Keene Marshall—sanctimonious prick extraordinaire and everyone’s despised boss—has descended into our war room.
I can almost hear the collective groans echo in my head as everyone within earshot wonders,Who screwed up this time? The answer, glaringly clear, is me.
Knowing I’m about to take the massive fallout for the team, I rise and extend my hand to the older man. “Miss me that much?”
He scoffs derisively. “Hardly. Just wondering if you’re finally going to file any of your past due expense reports.” He gestures at my chaotic desk. “Or if this is just another miserable social call.”
Before I can retort, Jon cuts in, “It’s not nearly as bad as it looked, Uncle Keene.”
He arches a brow—then his tone shifts, slicing coldly, “What wasn’t?”
At that instant, Keene’s cell rings. He picks it up and for just a moment his countenance softens before muttering with exaggerated disgust, “It’s Kalie. I wonder which of my relatives I need to post bail for this time.”
Jon whispers, “Holy hell. He doesn’t know.”
“I don’t know what?”
Damn it. A shitstorm is approaching fast—too quickly for us to avoid it. I snap at Jon, “You didn’t tell him yet?”
Jon waves his phone, exasperated. “I thought he already knew! You saw the text. I thought we were being summoned because of it.”
That’s when Keene answers the call that might seal our impending doom. “Hey sweetheart.”
At that moment, if I still clung to any hope of redeeming myself before destiny, I’d be praying hard. Keene’s veneer of amicability shatters, his calm morphs into rage as he bellows, “What the fuck do you mean you were arrested, Katherine Laura?” His green eyes turn into shards of green glass, lethal and aimed directly at me. “I see.”
The way Keene handles his oldest child being apprehended reveals I must have taken a far worse hit than I initially thought—unless I’m completely unhinged. Perhaps a brutal mix of both.
Before I can muster a defense, Keene clamps down on his temper long enough to order, “Don’t say another fucking word, Kalie. I’m sending your godfather to bail you out.” He pauses for a moment before continuing, “No, don’t argue. And don’t, under any circumstances, accept any favors the chief offers.” Then his voice softens moderately. “Stick to the damn book, sweetheart.”
Jon groans, pain and tension etched in every line of his face. He has every right to be terrified. I manage to gulp down what may be my final few breaths. Despite the fact I’m a lawyer for one of the largest crime families on the East Coast, they still don’t make me want to shit in my pants the way Keene does when he’s angry. Right now, angry was left down the road a ways back.
After he ends the call, he fixes his steely gaze on both me and Jon before coldly ordering, “My office. Now.”
Without waiting for an answer—because neither of us dares defy him—Keene spins on his heel and storms toward the elevator, leaving behind an electric void of impending doom. On the way there, Keene unleashes a torrent of wrath upon his nephew, momentarily sparing me the lethal laser beams of his glare, leaving me to wonder what’s going to be my fate when we’re behind closed doors.
I don’t have long to find out.
