Page 9 of Free to Judge
Leaving my office with a sense of dread, I trail behind her to the conference room. Normally, I love spending time in this room, which has borne witness to so many of our family’s celebrations and milestones. From the deep, rich mahogany woodwork to the stained glass with its perfectly centered amaryllises, it embodies the vision my family had decades ago for the type of legacy they wanted to create—strong and enduring.
The moment I step inside, I realize this isn’t another issue related to Uncle Phil’s shenanigans with electronics, or even Amaryllis Events, for that matter. Instead, my cousins are huddled together—Laura, with her ER doctor’s steady gaze, and Grace, an anaplastologist whose skilled hands speak of delicate precision—along with every member of our immediate family who calls this town and its surrounding areas home. Before I can muster a question, my mother strides purposefully toward Aunt Cassidy.
It’s then I spot my father and Uncle Caleb standing at the head of the table, their presence as imposing as the reputation of their investigative agency. Flanking them is Laura’s fiancé,his expression unreadable. Suddenly, the explosive words I had heard while on the phone are far more ominous. Quietly, I murmur to myself, “This is going to be bad,” and make my way toward my cousins, silently ready to offer my support.
An hour later, I find myself wishing I had been mistaken—wishing fervently that someone had pulled a Friday the Thirteenth prank.
But reality is far more grim.
My father and others, who are up to date on their Hudson bro code, have come into the office to explain the details regarding Declan Conian’s demand for the recent release of the Tiberi consigliere based on the technicality we heard about on the news last night.
Like I thought, there’s nothing we can do about it.
My nails bite into my palms as I make a fist, imagining what I would do if I had five uninterrupted minutes with Declan Conian.
Too bad they’re different from what I imagined doing to him at my college graduation.
CHAPTER FIVE
If I hada do-over and paused to look past the smug grin on his gorgeous face, would I have cursed first and hit second? I’m not sure. Either way, I’m confident the result would be the same. Struggling against the officer, I screech, “You’re putting these on the wrong person! That bastard helped the son of a bitch who hit my niece get off scot-free!”
That gives the officer a moment’s pause but doesn’t deter him. Crap. Then I spy a familiar face across the breezeway and shout, “Jon! Get this goon to take these cuffs off me!”
My cousin’s eyes narrow before he leaves the group of people he was conversing with to bolt my way. Not even breaking a sweat in his bespoke suit, his “What the fuck, Kalie?” is heard by every person in the small circle around me, many of whom have cell phones up since the sinfully rich and equally gorgeous Jonathan Lockwood is in their presence. I roll my eyes. This ridiculously handsome playboy is the same child my cousin Laura and I would force to eat our mud pies. One would think they’d be more impressed that a dainty brunette in four-inch heels managed to knock out a man built like a linebacker with one solid punch.
Not.
I make a mental note to thank Mama and Daddy for my pugilist skills. They made certain all their “girls” could protect themselves in any situation. Whether it was running or self-defense, one of the Marshall clan’s more annoying tendencies includes a never-ending competitiveness.
Those feelings festered and flourished in me—the first-born daughter to a man who openly admits he was born into a family that encouraged his being a sanctimonious prick. Not that I can blame my parents for my current predicament. I shake my wrists, feeling the cold steel against them—not a good look with the designer suit Aunt Em made me that I’m wearing for court.
A groan from the floor causes my insides to quiver. Glaring at me, Jon—the traitorous jerk—leans down and offers the prick a hand. I’m not sure my mouth can fall open any farther when the son of a bitch clasps my cousin’s forearm and says, “Thanks for the assist.”
“Excuse me? What the hell is happening right now?” I snarl at both men.
That’s when furious chocolate brown eyes bore into mine before my victim snaps, “That’s what I’d like to know.”
Hearing his smooth voice sends bitter shards of fury to pump through my veins even as it makes my thighs clench together in sweet agony. Damn him. Damn, Declan Conian. I never imagined what it was like to curse in a violent rage until I read a news article about my cousin’s trial one day and saw him with the people who harmed her.
Now, a face that used to cause tingles down my spine became a face I memorized in the hopes of achieving sweet, sweet vengeance if I ever happened upon the opportunity.
Yet, here he stands in a six-thousand-dollar suit, dabbing his split lip like he’s the one who has been wronged. But I know better. Underneath the polished exterior made possible by blood money, by lying with the filth of the criminal underworld, is a man who deserves to face a judge for crimes against humanity.
Regretfully, I won’t be able to file the paperwork to prevent Amaryllis Events from being sued, which was my intention before I entered the courthouse. No, instead, I let my temper get the best of me in front of two court officers. I have a one-way ticket to the pokey, and I somehow suspect this man isn’t going to stop me from rotting in a cell. After all, he’s intent on making my family relive our most recent nightmares.
And I, for one, haven’t forgotten a single second of it, even if my cousin’s appalled face indicates he might be wavering toward the enemy. I yell at Jon, “Since when did you start assisting the shyster who threatened our family?”
He tries to placate me, “Now, Kalie…”
My eyes narrow at him. “Don’t, Jon. Don’t you dare justify your actions right now.”
“Declan wasn’t directly involved with what happened,” he tries to reason. Meanwhile, I’m debating never speaking to my own blood cousin ever again for treason against his own.
Laura was harmed by the clients this man represents and he wants to stand here splitting hairs about ethics? About a man who will defend their innocence, yet he claims Declan isn’t playing a part in harming his sister? Like I care about the difference between whether someone physically or mentally injures one of our family?
In our family, we know better than most that pain causes scars. It lingers in the soul’s crevices. It agitates the subconscious. And just because you can move past it doesn’t mean it’s never going to rise back up and demand retribution.
Recalling the memories of how it felt to return after our home was violated, my breath releases in short, choppy bursts. My muscles tighten with the force of my fury. I refuse to be victimized anymore. Still, this bastard’s unreadable expression holds mine.
