Page 2 of Fighting for Mallory

“He is sick, sir. I am his cousin.”

He spoke with a thick accent Mallory couldn’t identify. Hackles rose on her neck and alarm screamed in her mind. Instinct prompted her to murmur, “Bentley.” Her tone held a warning note.

Bentley ignored her, focused only on his annoyance. “I would have appreciated some notice.”

“He is out of his head from fever.” The driver indicated the open door.

Mallory hesitated, unwilling to get into the limousine, but Bentley propelled her forward. She settled into the cool leather seat as Bentley went around to the other side. Silently, she cursed him for confiscating her cell phone. He’d left her without a means to contact Luca if she needed him, or his friends Marcus Finnigan and Howie Macklin, members of one of LA’s elite SWAT teams. Luca had given her an untraceable burner phone that she kept hidden in her office. She considered asking the driver to take a detour to her office building so she could grab the burner phone. Her keys and swipe badge were in her clutch purse. Mallory always carried them with her. She would come out with a thick file, and as small and compact as the phone was, Bentley wouldn’t know she had it. Not to mention confidentiality issues would prevent her from allowing him access to the file.

She had to try. Inexplicable fear seized her heart. “Bentley, may we stop by my office? I just realized I left a file I need to work on over the weekend.”

“No. I demand your attention tonight and the rest of the weekend. Whatever it is can wait until Monday.”

“Of course, darling.” He liked the term of endearment, so she often used it. Her stomach roiled in protest.

During the hour-long drive to Malibu, Bentley instructed Mallory on her behavior. He outlined his expectations in strict detail. She needed to be accessible, the epitome of grace and charm, converse intelligently, and be witty but not silly. He mentioned the names of influential politicians and businessmen he intended to woo. Their buying into the fundraiser didn’t mean their guaranteed support. Men like them often had their own agendas.

“Do not flirt, Mallory. I know you enjoy stringing Luca Martinelli along, but I won’t tolerate it tonight. You won’t like the consequences if you embarrass me.”

Righteous anger boiled her blood. It coursed through her, causing her pulse to pound. It roared in her ears. “Stop speaking to me as if I were an unschooled adolescent! And what else could you possibly do to me? Withhold sex? I can live without it. And,” she continued with a steely edge to her voice, “if you lay a hand on me, I’ll bring the entire LAPD down on you and crush any dream you have of making it to the White House. But first I’ll let Luca rip you to pieces.”

Bentley emitted a low growl of rage, and he balled his hand into a fist.

“Go ahead,” she goaded him. “Do it. Prove you’re fit to govern California. Prove you’re more of a man than Luca.”

For a breathless moment, Mallory expected Bentley to strike her. Do it. Give me a reason to free myself.

He relaxed. A self-satisfied smirk crossed his face. “Nice try, Mallory. You’re mine. For eternity. Nothing short of death will separate us. Watching you and Luca pine for each other gives me endless pleasure.”

Mallory refused to acknowledge him. She turned her head and stared out the tinted window at the scenery. They traveled up the Pacific Coast Highway, but the beauty of the cliffs and the ocean made no impression on her. Only the stink of Bentley’s aftershave assaulted her senses.

She pined for Luca. Pined for him with every atom, every molecule, every fiber of her being. Imagining his mouth on hers in a sweet, fiery kiss sustained her and fueled her hope. Without admitting it aloud, Luca hinted of his unsanctioned investigation into Bentley’s business affairs. Mallory suspected Lieutenant David “Hutch” Hutchinson and John “Tex” Keegan, too, were assisting him. A single piece of evidence of criminal activity could free her from her loveless marriage, yet what if…

What if she told Luca the truth?

No. Mallory couldn’t risk it. She would do everything in her power to protect Luca, even bear the worst Bentley could do to her.

The sun sank below the western horizon and cast a warm glow over Senator Keane’s white palace built into the hills. Like most of the estates along the Pacific Coast Highway, it was constructed of cement and glass. The house was partially hidden from the street by a variety of lush greenery and blooming flowers.

Valets hired for the event drove off in expensive luxury cars. Mallory and Bentley’s limousine driver waited behind a Lamborghini as it inched toward the main entrance to the house. Once there, the driver hurried to open the passenger door and assist Mallory from the interior. Her initial reaction to him resurfaced, and she disengaged herself as soon as she cleared the door. Close to him she noted a jagged scar running from cheek to chin. Part of a tattoo peeked from beneath the cuff of his uniform and set off more alarm bells inside her. Though she caught only a glimpse, she thought she recognized it. A fanged copperhead.

A fanged copperhead symbolized a dangerous organization operating in the shadows. Crime families like the Finnicelli’s and the Grimaldi’s, until they’d been brought down, ran their businesses in the light of day because of their arrogance. With some persistence and excellent police work, they met their demise. But this insidious network didn’t have a name or a clear leader. Only the tattoo of the fanged copperhead identified members. Mallory had prosecuted a pair of these slithering criminals two months ago for brutally slaughtering a highly decorated police captain in the LAPD. On orders from the LA Police Commission, the chief of police created a special task force whose sole mission was to find the captain’s murderers. It took weeks of squeezing every confidential informant at their disposal, old-fashioned footwork, and cyber technology to get a lead on the pair and arrest them.

The police captain’s family and the LAPD demanded a speedy trial. No sitting in jail awaiting prosecution for a year or longer for them. U.S. Attorney Judd Morgan moved the case to the front of the docket, and the pair were brought before Hanging Judge Harry Cohen within a month of their arrest.

A fanged copperhead twisting up their left arm identified them as belonging to some kind of organized crime, but Judd and Mallory couldn’t wrench any information from them. Since their lawyer refused to put them on the witness stand, the case rested on forensics and surveillance video. The trial lasted a week, with a guilty verdict handed down less than an hour after the jury began deliberating. Twenty-four hours after being sent to California State Prison, they were shanked to death.

Their names: Alonso Mercado and Gill Tino.

Mallory gripped Bentley’s arm and murmured, “I don’t have a good feeling about our limo driver. Something isn’t right. Let’s take a cab or Uber home after the fundraiser.”

“You’re bringing this up now?” He hid his annoyance with her behind a bright, pearly white smile as he acknowledged the guests milling in the airy living room.

A member of Senator Keane’s staff offered to take Mallory’s white wrap. She wanted to make an excuse to use the restroom so she could find a landline phone to call Luca, but Bentley kept a tight grip on her elbow as he steered her toward the businessmen and women, politicians, entertainers, and sports stars whose favor he needed to court. Her smile never wavered, though inside she screamed.

Soon, she and Bentley joined Senator Keane and his wife, Annalise. They were a decent, loving couple with four children ranging in age from sixteen to eight. Mallory couldn’t fathom how Bentley had befriended the senator, who wasn’t the sort of man her husband usually associated with. Conversing with the Keanes, however, lightened the ill feeling around her heart.

When Bentley and Senator Keane moved away from them, Annalise’s eyes followed her husband. “They have big plans for the future of our state, Mallory. California is dying. Residents are forsaking her and leaving in droves. Wildfires have destroyed her woodlands and natural habitats and entire neighborhoods. The cost of living here is too steep. Only the rich can afford to buy property, and we can’t continue to cater to the elite. Hollywood is on the verge of collapsing.” She lowered her voice. “Though my husband is only one of eight Republican senators, the tide may be turning, Mallory.”

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