I rub my forehead. “It’s your case now, Wright.”
“Yeah, but you can be here for it. Cheering me on,” he adds cheekily.
“I’ll be there,” I say. “But I’m not your damn cheerleader.”
“Ah, well,” he says. I hear keys clack on his end. “Okay—Leone: jury selection Monday, openings Wednesday if we don’t drown in hardship.”
“I’ll be in the gallery, not at counsel table,” I say. “Spectator, not staff.”
“Tragic,” Wright sighs. “I had a yellow legal pad with your name on it.”
“Burn it. And don’t send me materials. I’m not on the case.”
“Relax, Counselor Ethics,” he teases. “Public calendar only. You can come heckle me from the pews.”
“I don’t heckle. I judge silently.”
“Even worse.” I hear him grin. “Want me to reserve a seat? We’ll stick a Post-it: ‘Do Not Sit—Scary Lady.’”
“Just text me the docket time and the courtroom. I’ll find my own seat.”
“Part 17, 9:30 a.m., Judge still hates late people. Wear something that makes me look good by proximity.”
“I’m not your prop, Wright.”
“Fine, fine. How long you staying?”
“Openings, at least. I’ll try to make it for the big milestones throughout. Depends on my schedule here.”
“Copy. I’ll send you any updates as they come.”
“Good. Thanks,” I say.
“I’ll take you out to Alto’s for your first—of many, I’m sure—coffees,” he says cheerfully.
How the hell am I going to get out of that one? Why did I even mention Alto’s? Could I order decaf without him…
My head starts pounding.
“Sounds good,” I say instead. “See you Monday.”
“See you.” I hang up and set the phone face down, the room falling back into silence.
Chapter Seventeen
Luca
The living room carries sound differently since the house emptied out. You can hear the vents, the soft click when the AC cuts out, the way the pool filter hums through the glass.
Late afternoon light slants across the rug and stops at the feet of the coffee table.
Giovanni takes the chair opposite me. He’s got a slim folder on his knee and a phone face down on the armrest.
Vito won’t sit. He paces, one hand in his pocket, the other cracking a knuckle against his thigh like he’s keeping time only he can hear.
“Good news,” Giovanni says without preamble. “Our people are almost finished with the last pass on the new box. They’re confident the anchor won’t see you leave.”
“Like last time?” I ask, lifting a brow.
