Luca
The revolving door of the Atlantic County Prosecutor’s Office spits us into bright marble and cold air that smells like lemon cleaner and burnt coffee. Flags to one side, reception dead ahead, security standing at attention. The kind of lobby that justfeelslike paperwork and red tape.
We move as a unit—Roberto leading the way with his briefcase, followed by Caterina and me.
I clock the guards immediately. The ones in uniform. And the ones not in uniform. One pretending to study the directory posted on the wall. Another sitting in a chair in the waitingarea. Another two talking to each other while walking toward the elevators.
She’s already here.
Waiting just past security, watching us. No smile, no frown, no tells. The non-expression of a woman trained in reading them.
Elena Pennino.
There’s another woman with her. Suit like Elena’s, but the stance is wrong for a lawyer—weight balanced, hands free, eyes doing a subtle sweep. A cop.
I’m almost amused. Almost.
Do they think we’re going to make a scene right here in reception?
“IDs,” the security guard says. She doesn’t lift her head to see if we comply; the tone assumes it. “Empty your pockets. Belts and watches in the tray.”
We do the dance. Roberto unbuckles, sets his briefcase on the belt. Caterina slides her handbag behind it. I drop my phone, money clip, and watch into the gray bin. The guard waves me through, and the arch stays quiet. Another guard checks anyway with a wand.
Beyond the checkpoint, Elena’s gaze stays steadily on us. I try to read it; I get nothing.
The woman beside her never looks straight at us. She takes in angles, distances, positions of hands. Her jacket sits right over a holster line that a more careful tailor would have flashed.
Caterina doesn’t tug my sleeve, doesn’t lean toward me, doesn’t do any of the things nervous people do. But I know my blood. Her pulse may be jumping, but she’s ready. Discipline is the difference between fear and trembling. She has the first. I won’t let her have the second.
We clear. The guard slides one visitor sticker across the counter.
Roberto opens his mouth, and I can hear the argument assemble: counsel’s right to be present, interview versus advisement, optics, public building.
But I know it’s all for show. Roberto already made it very clear to both Caterina and me that they likely wouldn’t allow him in. He can’t represent both Caterina and me in this.
He already schooled Caterina on what to do, what to say. And what not to say.
Let them think they’re a step ahead. It costs us nothing.
But we’re not the only ones playing games, it seems. They knew very well that they wouldn’t be letting anyone but Caterina in, so making Roberto and me go through security was intentional.
There’s a tension around the room that men like me notice. Shoulders lift. Weight shifts. Eyes avert.
It pleases me that they’d go through the trouble. Eleven years in prison, and my reputation hasn’t suffered a single step back.
Elena starts toward us, the cop in step next to her. Her suit today is charcoal and fits just as well as the previous one. Her dark hair is down, not in a courtroom bun, but still neat and professional. Good leather on the shoes, no vanity. The watch at her wrist is small and functional, not showy.
Professional and efficient.
That same feeling hits me again, low in my gut, some stiffening in my pants.
Not because she’s acting in any particular way, not because she’s dressed inappropriately, not even because she’s being flirty.
She isn’t. She justis. Because she’s a problem I would love to solve if we weren’t who we were, sitting on opposite sides of the table.
I tamp it down. Control is managing what I’m feeling, my desires. I’ve spent eleven years refining my control into a blade.
But it’s not working. My desire is a live wire under the skin. Itchy, irritating. Tempting.
