Chapter One
Maeve
I stare up at the two giant, tattooed men who practically fill all the space in my tiny little law office.
“How can I help you, gentlemen?” I’m proud that my voice comes out calm and composed, even though I feel anything but.
For the first time in my career as a criminal prosecutor, I feel a little unprepared. The permanent scowls of the men before me make it clear they’re not here to socialize. Still, underneath my unease, there’s a tiny thrill of hope.
Sure, these men look like they could snap me in half without breaking a sweat, but they also look like the kind of men who might need a really good criminal prosecutor—and maybe this case will be big enough.
Big enough to prove to myself, my father, and anyone else who’s watching, that I have what it takes.
“Please, have a seat.” I gesture to the two mismatched leather chairs on the opposite side of my desk.
The giant with blond hair—who I imagine is in charge judging from how he carries himself—nods at his companion, and they both sit down, though even that still doesn’t put them on eyelevel with me. Christ, they’re both so tall and broad, with eyes so dark they scare the living hell out of me.
“Miss Halloway, we’d like to hire you for a case that involves a friend of mine,” the leader says, leaning back in his seat. I resist the urge to fidget when he fixes those cold eyes on me. “My name is Saint. I’m the president of the Steel Rebels, and this here is Hawk, my friend’s parole officer.”
The Steel Rebels.
Deep breath, Maeve.
I knew at some point I would have to face some scary clients, but I thought that when it happened, I would have a secretary, a partner, or a guard outside my door who would hear me if I screamed bloody murder.
The parole officer hands over a file, and I start to read through it. Looks like an ex-con violated his parole conditions by getting himself arrested for drug charges. And that’s bad enough, but it’s not the worst part. The person I’m supposed to represent isn’t just an ex-con but a member of the Steel Rebels MC.
Okay, a case involving a member of the most notorious motorcycle club in the state is honestly a little more high-profile than I was expecting.
Christ, I’m so fresh out of law school that these two can probably still smell the textbooks on me. This early in my career, I’ve mostly been dealing with first-time DUIs, traffic violations, and a few simple assault cases.
But I want more. And I want to be the best. This could be a real step forward for me.
My father’s words echo through my mind.
“Maeve, honey, you know I’d like to support you no matter what you do—you’ve got the brains to go far—but I just don’t think being a criminal prosecutor is good fit for you.”
“You mean you don’t think I can do it?”
“I mean I’ve seen what it’s like out there—it’s not safe! Certainly not a job for a nice girl like you.”
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted follow in my father’s footsteps and go into law. And he supported me through law school, even encouraged me, until it became clear that I wanted to practice criminal defense.
He’s the district attorney for the state of Illinois—I can’t be blamed for the kind of work that captures my interest. It’s in my blood. But of course, the career I’ve chosen isn’t “safe enough.”
I know that’s just code for the fact that he thinks a woman can’t make it in his world.
So, I graduated top of my class and beat all the boys just to show him that I was better than any son he could have ever hoped for. I became valedictorian just to prove to him that I could.
And then I started my own firm. Sure, it’s just a tiny office, barely bigger than my old bedroom, but the idea of climbing the corporate ladder by playing politics, or by using my dad’s name, has never appealed to me.
The furniture is a mismatched collection of thrift store finds and hand-me-downs, but I’m proud of the work I’ve done here so far. The people I’ve helped. Away from the shadow of my father’s influence, I’ve begun to make a name for myself.
Enough that notorious criminals are seeking out my services, apparently.
“You’re here for your member’s bail hearing.” I flip through the file just so I have something to do with my fingers. “Cole Maddox was arrested on drug possession—”
“It’s bogus,” Saint interrupts, his eyes firing up. “Trigger doesn’t use any fucking drugs, let alone ride around the goddamn city with them.”
