Page 27 of Seneca
Damron smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You ever see a club brother die in a state pen?”
“I’ve seen a lot of men die,” I replied. “Some deserved it more than others.”
A murmur ran around the table—maybe respect, maybe amusement. Damron’s face didn’t change. He steepled his fingers. “You know why you’re here, Judge?”
I didn’t answer. Seneca did it for me.
“They hit her house last night. Martini crew. Two shooters, maybe three. She got out, but they’ll be back.”
Damron looked at me again, this time with the cold appraisal of a predator deciding if the wounded animal was worth finishing off. “Martini’s reach doesn’t usually get this far west.”
“Maybe they’re motivated,” I said. “Or maybe they don’t like being made fools of.” I explained the situation with my grandfather dying and the Martini’s opportunities.
Damron considered this, then glanced at Seneca. “You trust her?”
Seneca’s response was instant. “I do.”
That seemed to settle it. Damron gestured to the side, and one of the officers slid a file folder down the length of the table. It stopped in front of me with a soft thud.
“Your attorney,” Damron said. “She’s been busy.”
I opened the folder. Inside were printouts and screenshots of text messages, bank transfer confirmations, and a few grainy photos taken from across crowded bars. The first page was astring of messages between Jenna and a number listed only as “MARTINI.” The language was clinical, but the intent was unmistakable. There were locations, timing, and requests for updates. Some of the later texts were more desperate, asking if “the package” had been delivered, if “the bell” had rung.
I kept flipping. There was a printout from Jenna’s bank, including a $10,000 deposit in cash, the day after the first attempt on my life. Another showed a one-way flight to Las Vegas under an alias I recognized from our college days—a name Jenna only used when she was running from something.
At the bottom of the stack was a burner phone, taped to a sheet of paper with a time and date: yesterday, 8:17 p.m. I peeled it free and set it on the table, afraid to touch it, afraid not to.
Damron spoke low, almost kindly. “We watched her for a week, after Seneca called. Had our tech run the numbers. Your friend is working both sides.”
I felt the blood drain from my face. My hands started to shake. I pressed them flat to the table, fighting the urge to sweep everything off and scream until the drywall cracked.
“She was more than my attorney,” I managed. The words tasted nasty.
Damron’s expression didn’t change, but something in the room softened. “We all got ghosts,” he said. “Sometimes they walk right in the front door.”
Seneca slid the phone closer to me. “It’s unlocked. Last call was to your cell.”
I stared at the screen, the digital timestamp burning into my retinas. Jenna had called. Not to warn me, not to ask for help, just to confirm I’d still be home, that the timing was right. I tried to picture the look on her face as she did it, the clinical detachment, the way she always bit her lower lip when nervous. Had she cried after, or just gotten drunk and waited for the cleanup?
The room was silent. I realized I was the only one breathing.
Damron cleared his throat, and the moment passed. “You need to decide, Judge. You want our help, you gotta be honest with us. What’s your game?”
I looked up, and all I could feel was the animal need to survive, to not let the betrayal matter more than the next breath. “I want to live,” I said. “And I want to see Martini burn for what he’s trying to do.”
Damron nodded. “That’s a start.”
He turned to the road captains. “Get Nitro back in here. We’ll run a sitrep and set up watches.”
The man with the helmet nose ducked out, boots echoing on the tile. I tried to put the phone back in the folder, but my hands wouldn’t cooperate. Seneca took it from me, gentle, and set it aside.
Damron looked at me one last time. “You’re under our roof now. That means we’ll bleed for you if it comes to it.”
“I understand.”
He leaned in, the old wounds in his face deepening. “Don’t make us regret it, Catherine Bellini.”
“I won’t.”
