Page 8 of The Heir
Sweat pours down my back as I huff out breath after breath. I'm laser-focused on the jury foreman, whoholds a manila envelope that contains my wife's future. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Melody fidget in her seat out. I so badly want to pull her in close and whisper that I've got her, everything will be alright. I need to touch her. I need to kiss her. I need to tell her I love her, no matter what.
"I understand you've reached a verdict?" the judge asks, and the jury foreman nods.
"Yes, we have." The foreman stands. He's a tall, thin man with wispy hair trying desperately to hide his bald spot. The fluorescent light reflects off his forehead anyway. I stare into the man's face as he reads off the charges.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Guilty.
Melody bursts into tears, and I launch myself over the partition, pulling her into my arms. The courtroom erupts, but I don't care. Nuzzling into her neck, I whisper, "I love you. I love you so much. I'll get you out, I promise."
"I love you, too," Melody sobs back and kisses me deeply. Just as I get a taste of my effervescent wife, I'm wrenched away by the bailiff. The judge is yelling aboutcontempt, but all I can see is my wife. Maybe for the last time in a while. I commit every inch of her to memory and hold onto her hands, trying to pull her away with me. Another cop yanks her back and slaps the handcuffs back around her wrists.
"No!" I scream and pull myself from the clawing hands. "No! Melody!"
"I'm sorry, Dante!" Melody yells as another cop swarms her and drags her away. "I'm so sorry!"
Sorry? What could she possibly be sorry for?
My heart shatters as I watch the last glimpse of the court bailiff dragging Melody away. Another cop slaps cuffs around my wrists, but god, I don't care. If only they'd throw me into the same cell, I'd happily live my life in prison if it meant I could be with her. I need her to know I love her. I need her to know that sheshouldn'tbe sorry. She did nothing wrong. She never did anything wrong.
Contempt of court, as it turns out, can be fixed by a quickly paid fine. The more I learn about the justice system in our country, the more I am absolutely disgusted. There is no real justice. There is, however, cruel punishment and monetary punishment. It hardly seemsfair that Melody gets one end of the stick, while I "get" to pay a tiny bribe, and my troubles are gone. Free to go, to drink expensive whiskey in the comfort of my own home.
But that's the way of this world, isn't it? Men make decisions, and women suffer. I made a decision, and Melody is suffering. Yet she cried out her apologies to me when it should be the other way around. I will spend the rest of my life begging her forgiveness, if she'll let me.
Though my mind remains focused on Melody, Roman's behavior worms its way to the front. For years, he has been the very model of a Goetic assistant. His knowledge of my business dealings—legal and otherwise—is unmatched. He knows exactly what to delegate and what to handle himself. I call, he runs. And he's paid handsomely for this level of service.
Lately, it seems he's become rather irritable. I'll need to speak with him about it, but I just don't have the wherewithal to bring it up. Still, I watch his nostrils flare as he taps away on his phone. Perhaps it's simply Helena's predicament: she is, after all, the first person on his team to go through such a horrific experience on the job.
"How is Helena?" I muse, watching the crease between Roman's brows deepen.
"She is… recovering," Roman grunts. He clicks his phone screen off and focuses his attention on me. "She's traumatized, sir. She watched her charge be beaten. She watched Melody kill a man with her bare hands. She watched the man's corpse fester with blowflies and maggots not ten feet away from where she slept. Her military training didn't prepare her for that level of gore, up close and personal like that."
"I can't imagine anyone's training would." I grimace at the thought. "Is there anything I can do for her?"
"No." He shakes his head and sighs. "She just needs time. I've been in contact with her therapist, Dr. Hammond. She says the night terrors are decreasing in frequency."
"Good. Good. Roman, I'm…" I trail off.Sorrydoesn't seem like enough. A platitude. Something you just say to make yourself feel better, like you're trying to convince the other party you're a good person. "I will never let this happen again."
"Nor will I, sir."
Melody
Guilty. The word rattles around in my brain as I'm taken back to the jail, back to my cell. I'm guilty. A jury of my peers decided they didn't like my story. A jury of my peers decided I was guilty, that I should be left to rot in prison, forgotten by the world. I'm perfectly fine being forgotten. In fact, I prefer it—that was my goal, after all, whenI left Chicago.
I take issue with the "rotting in prison" part. Everyone I killed deserved it. Charlie was a sexual predator. Frank hated women. Dante had a good reason for that other guy, I'm sure, though I don't remember his name. And that sleazy asshole in Ella's basement wasperfectly finewith taking advantage of a literal caged woman.
I'm sure there are a few others I'm forgetting, but they deserved it, too. My only regret is the fact that Ella, Rafaella Angelo, is still alive. She's very much alive and lauded by her peers for catching a horrific murderer.
"Heard the news," Stacy announces as she's brought back to our cell. The guard locks the goddamn cage we're stuck in and saunters off without a care in the world. "Sorry to hear it, sister. When's the sentencing?"
