I freeze as a bolt of electricity sparks my puckered lips. The jolt surges down my throat before clustering in my flipping core. I yank back, astounded by the sheer power of the zap. My movements are so abrupt, my head rams into the glass door with force.
Wincing in pain, my hand darts up to cradle the throb in my skull. My accident gains the attention of the armed guards moseying in the hall. When Nikolai spots the guards’ distorted shadows charging for us, he seizes my wrist in a vise-like grip and yanks me into his body. Panic would usually be my first response to being abruptly grabbed, but shockingly, I feel no fear.
Hot air blasts my hair when the thick, reinforced door veers past my skull with only a millimeter to spare. I draw in rattled breaths as my eyes dart between Nikolai’s. If he hadn’t pulled me into his chest, I could have been injured by the wildly flung door.
“Thank you,” I whisper faintly, a better reply beyond me.
The wild beat of my heart doubles when a genuine smile stretches across Nikolai’s face. It’s even more appealing than his ruthless smirk.
When two high-powered assault rifles dot his chest with red, he releases me from his grip and paces backward, only stopping when he reaches the chair I knocked over during my attempt to flee. He lifts the chair from the ground then takes a seat, his movements more agile than a ballerina performing on a Paris stage.
The unidentifiable gleam his eyes have carried the past hour fades when he connects them with the two guards. “Your disrespect won’t go unnoticed,” he sneers in a low, pussy-quaking tone.
He continues reprimanding them in Russian, but with my name being shouted from outside the room, I fail to hear the rest of his scold.
Mr. Fletcher’s frame fills the doorway not even two seconds later. He absorbs my inflamed cheeks and wide eyes as I muster a fake smile.
“Everything okay?” he queries as his worried gaze drifts between Nikolai and me.
I forcefully nod. “Uh-huh.”
My eyes swing sideways when Kirk reenters the interrogation room, his steps as hurried as his words. His excited mumblings are thwarted mid-sentence when Mr. Fletcher raises his finger into the air, silencing him.
“Are you sure everything is okay, Justine?” Mr. Fletcher paces toward me, his worry unconcealed. “You’re very pale. Whiter than usual.”
He brushes the back of his hand over my heated cheek, revealing our contrasting body temps. I’ve only just registered his remark on my fair skin coloring when a furious growl rumbles around the room, causing not only my heart to shudder, but my core as well.
Mr. Fletcher’s hand falls from my face as his eyes sling in the direction the growl resonated from. Nikolai is standing at our right. His fists are balled as tightly as his jaw is clenched, and his eyes are slit.
I take a step back from Mr. Fletcher, mindful that even being surrounded by armed guards won’t stop a man like Nikolai from serving justice.
A ghost of a smile cracks on Nikolai’s face, smitten by the foot of air lodged between Mr. Fletcher and me. As a guard guides him out of the room, he locks his eyes with Mr. Fletcher.
“Don’t underestimate me, Carmichael, or this time your stupidity will cost you your life,” he warns, his voice as violent as his snarl.
My brows scrunch when Mr. Fletcher nods. His gesture was quick, but its swiftness didn’t lessen its impact. I had a feeling Mr. Fletcher and Nikolai had met before. Now, I have proof to back up my intuition.
When Nikolai enters the corridor, Mr. Fletcher connects his eyes with mine. “Do you want to work on this case, Justine?”
“Yes,” I answer without pause. “Do you? I’m not the one who just had my life threatened by a mafia prince.”
He nods without hesitation. “It’s thirteen years later than I would have liked, but I’m not walking away a second time.”
A million questions filter through my brain, but I can’t get one of them to fire off my tongue. Lucky, as Mr. Fletcher continues speaking, saving me from the embarrassment of flapping gums. “If this case will stir up old memories for you, Justine, I’d rather you take a step back. We have a backlog of clients dying for someone with your criminal knowledge to peruse their files. You can work on those until—”
“I’m not giving up this case, Carmichael,” I interrupt, cutting him off mid-sentence.
He glowers at me in shock. I don’t know if his dropped jaw arises from my determination to remain on this case, or the fact I called him by his given name for the first time.
“Nikolai’s interests in you won’t taper, Justine. The instant you denied him, you became a challenge,” he warns, his tone more friendly than professional.
“I know,” I reply, nodding. “I can handle it. I can handle him.”
I inwardly sigh, grateful my voice held the confidence I wanted it to exude. Nikolai’s attention does replicate advances I’ve been unappreciative of in the past, but the retainer I will receive working on his case warrants an unrestrained reply. Goals I’ve been aiming for the past four years will now be within reach, so nothing said or done will alter my decision.
After taking a few moments to read the honesty in my eyes, Mr. Fletcher says, “Okay, then let’s do this.”
His eyes stray to Michelle, who is lugging a set of sparkling golf clubs down the corridor. “Golf clubs?”
“Check!” Michelle declares loudly, giggling at the obvious.
“I keep a spare set in my trunk in case of emergencies,” she advises, seeing my bug-eyed expression.
Mr. Fletcher’s bright smile reveals Michelle’s out-of-the box approach will be immensely rewarded.
“Transportation?” Mr. Fletcher queries, his tone high with hope.
Kirk cups his cell phone with his hand. “Two will ride with Nikolai in the transportation van while the rest will follow in your town car.” He waits for Mr. Fletcher to nod in acknowledgement before he returns to barking commands into his cell. I swear, I’ve rarely seen him without an electronic device in his hand the entire three months I’ve known him.
“Judge Ryder?” Mr. Fletcher steps out of the interrogation room to find Trent in the bustling corridor.
Although Nikolai’s arrest is as regular as me eating waffles on Sunday, his presence has drawn a crowd of onlookers. Even a plain-clothed officer is snapping a picture of him being guided into the back of a transport van idling at the end of the hallway.
My eyes stray from Nikolai when Trent suddenly bursts into the hallway. He has a shit-eating grin stretched across his face and a set of excessively waggling brows. “Mrs. Ryder requested I thank you for the Hawaiian adventure, and to advise that she looks forward to issuing her gratitude in person when she hand delivers Judge Ryder to his chambers in T minus three minutes.”
Mr. Fletcher fist pumps the air. “Yes, now all we need is the paperwork.”
The room shrinks in size when everyone’s eyes snap to mine.
“Yep. I’m on it,” I lie, loathing that I turned up to the celebration minus a gift.
“Alright. Let’s do this,” Mr. Fletcher shouts. “It’s time to. . .”
“Bring home the bacon!” the team shouts in sync, like a bunch of football players charging onto the field.
The thump of my head ramps up a gear when the scene turns crazy. Key members of Schluter & Fletcher race in every direction, multitasking as they finalize their assigned duties.
I do the same thing.
While snapping at the heels of Mr. Fletcher, I use my palm as a table so I can finalize the documents for Nikolai’s house arrest. With my head still giddy from my exchange with Nikolai and my pace frantic, my handwriting is atrocious—barely legible, but I continue on, more determined than ever.
Usually, I’d be striving for the impressive bonus we receive with each case we win, but this time, my determination is solely based on Mr. Fletcher’s guarantee that he’ll work on my brother’s case this weekend. That is worth more than any bonus I could ever receive.
“Justine, you ride with Trent and Michelle in my town car. Kirk, you come with me,” Mr. Fletcher instructs when we merge onto the sidewalk where Nikolai’s transport van is parked at the curb.
He freezes halfway into the van when I suggest, “Take these with you in case we get stuck in traffic.”
The van’s flashing lights will ensure Mr. Fletcher and Nikolai arrive at court in time; the rest of us might not be as lucky.
Mr. Fletcher’s foot taps in rhythm with every precious second I’m wasting. “We need to go, Justine,” he informs, as if I’m unaware of the strict deadline. “Finish them during the commute. Kirk, swap places with Justine.”
Not speaking another word, he grabs my arms and hoists me into the van, placing me into the seat Kirk just vacated. If I wasn’t panicked about finalizing my forms, I’d issue Kirk my apologies for stealing his limelight. It isn’t every day you get to second chair with a defense attorney as famous as Mr. Fletcher, so I’m wary his slitted eyes aren’t entirely based on the setting skyline.
As the van dangerously careens through traffic—its lights flashing and horn honking with every hair-raising veer—I continue with my mission to finalize the house arrest documentation. Although I don’t have time to look up, I don’t need to glance sideways to know Nikolai is watching me. I can feel the heat of his gaze on me.
“Done,” I declare a short time later, sending my girly voice bouncing off the bulletproof walls and shrilling into my ears. “Now you just need to sign it.”
“Do not approach the detainee,” an armed guard grumbles when I attempt to hand Nikolai the paperwork.
His snapped response has me recoiling in my seat and Nikolai’s angry glare shifting to him. The veins in Nikolai’s neck protrude so fiercely, he looks as if he is moments away from snapping the shackles from the floor and using them to strangle the guard.
His brutal gaze only softens when I inform the guard, “I just need a signature on the bottom of these forms.” I gesture my head to the document in my hand, shaking like a leaf on a hot summer’s day. “It’s just a few pieces of paper and a pen. What harm can be done?”
The guard sneers, baring teeth, before he jerks his chin, soundlessly permitting me to hand the documents to Nikolai.
“Ten seconds,” Nikolai mutters under his breath as he accepts the documents from my grasp.
I dance my eyes between his. “What?”
His lips curl into a heart-fluttering smirk. “Ten seconds. That’s all it takes for me to kill a man with a pen.”
I swallow harshly, my mouth suddenly parched. “Oh.” I’d like to articulate a better response, but I’m honestly lost for words.
After snickering at my wide-eyed response, Nikolai asks, “What am I signing?”
“It’s a petition for you to be placed under house arrest until better circumstances can be arranged,” Mr. Fletcher explains before a syllable can escape my lips.
Nikolai’s eyes rocket to Mr. Fletcher. His gaze is hot enough to melt ice. “I wasn’t asking you.” The anger in his eyes doubles. “I was asking Justine—my defense attorney.”
My throat works hard to swallow the brick his possessive toned lodged in there before I explain, “It’s as Mr. Fletcher stated, an application for house arrest.”
I hear the clanking of chains running through metal when Nikolai sweeps an unruly hair from the front of my eye. His simple gesture has both the guards and Mr. Fletcher on edge. The only one not panicked is me.
Although Nikolai’s eyes convey his annoyance at the situation he finds himself in, there’s something deeply imbedded in them that keeps my worry at bay.
“Your eyes show the confidence you fail to exude, Ahren. Don’t hide them from me,” Nikolai demands before lowering his gaze to the document in his hand.
I sit in silence as he flips over the pages, speed reading every word in the five-page document. Only once he arrives at the final page do his eyes return to me. This time, his gaze sets my nerves on edge. They’re haughty and arrogant, hiding a lifetime of secrets.
In different circumstances, I’d be keen to unravel the secrets his eyes seem to guard more closely than his heart, but since we’re in the process of arriving at court on attempted murder charges, I brush off my desire as nothing more than curiosity.
“Is this what you want?” Nikolai asks me, snapping my attention back to him. His voice is so low, my toes shudder.
“It isn’t about what I want, Nikolai; this is about you, and what is in your best interest.” I inwardly sigh when my voice comes out confident and without reservation. I sound like the professional I am supposed to be, not a lust-driven woman hungry for skin-on-skin friction.
It feels like the earth circles the moon three times before Nikolai nudges his head to the pen in my hand. Conscious of his earlier disclosure, I hesitantly hand him the uncapped instrument. It’s the fight of my life not to rib him with my elbow when a crass grin etches on his mouth from my delay.
Nikolai’s aura demands respect, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that represents the childhood he most likely never lived. I have four older brothers who have grown into outstanding men, but just like Nikolai, no matter how many years pass, a little boy still lives in their hearts.
“Thank you,” I murmur when Nikolai hands me the signed forms at the same time the van comes to a stop at the front of the courthouse stairs.
Within seconds, Nikolai is unshackled from the floor and guided out of the van. The scene turns frantic when I clamber onto the sidewalk on the coattails of Mr. Fletcher. Although Mr. Fletcher is well-known in his hometown, he isn’t the cause for the media’s attention.
The large contingency of reporters circling Nikolai treat him as if he is a celebrity. They push and shove each other while screaming his name, praying they will get the money shot that will land on the front pages of tomorrow’s newspapers. Although their eagerness is uncontained, the additional Las Vegas PD officers brought in to contain them allow us to enter Judge Ryder’s chambers with a minute to spare.
As we race down the corridor, my eyes scan the scene. Sasha is positioned on the right-hand side of the courtroom—notably minus her client, and judge Ryder is already seated at his podium.
Judge Ryder’s caterpillar eyebrows show he is close to retirement age. His medium build is growing rounder in the midsection as his focus shifts from ruling a courtroom to scaling the Amazon author rankings. I’ve only sat across from him twice the past three months, but each proceeding made my respect for him double. He is direct and firm, but unbiased—a rare treat for a long-serving judge.
“Judge, the Hawaiian sun did wonders for your complexion,” Mr. Fletcher schmoozes as he glides through the Constantine doors.
“Yes, yes, Carmichael. Save your yakking for my wife. She’s waiting for you outside,” Judge Ryder responds, his surly mood unexpected but understandable for the late hour.
I bite the inside of my cheek to hide my smile when Mr. Fletcher grimaces. Judge Ryder’s wife is exceedingly friendly with Mr. Fletcher. She has often said that if she were thirty years younger, she’d leave her husband and shack up with Mr. Fletcher—much to his dismay.
When Mr. Fletcher requests to approach the judge, I take a seat in the galley. Although Nikolai requested I first chair his case, I will not cite an objection to Mr. Fletcher steering the direction of the proceedings. Watching Mr. Fletcher in his element is an invaluable experience years of training can’t replicate. It will also save me awkwardly fumbling through my first bail hearing without adequate preparation.
The heat in my cheeks doubles when Mr. Fletcher hands Judge Ryder the documents I finalized during our commute. God, I hope he can read my chicken-scratch writing.
“Our client’s request for house arrest has been signed by the defendant and endorsed by the DA’s office,” Mr. Fletcher advises, waving his hand to the prosecution. “With lockup overrun with rowdy school leavers, one less occupant is best for all involved.”
The judge turns his worldly eyes to Sasha. “Are Mr. Fletcher’s claims true, Ms. Sheridan? Are you siding with the defense so their client can be bailed under the condition of house arrest?”
“Yes,” Sasha replies, “but our agreement is merely to stop Mr. Fletcher’s client from coercing drunken fools into becoming members of his. . . association.”
Judge Ryder huffs, unappreciative of Sasha’s bitchy insinuation so late on a Friday afternoon.
“Very well. With both parties agreeing to the terms as stated, I have no reason to decline your request, Mr. Fletcher,” Judge Ryder discloses as his eyes return to Mr. Fletcher.
The hum of excited chatter fills the crammed chambers, the spectators shocked by the judge’s ruling.
“However,” the judge adds on, silencing the entire room. “I’m only agreeing to the request for house arrest because the defendant is not being housed in any compounds associated with him or with any known associates of his.”
Mr. Fletcher’s eyes rocket to mine. He stares at me, soundlessly requesting an explanation. I shrug my shoulders. I’m at a complete loss as to what Judge Ryder is referring to. I jotted down Nikolai’s family compound on the forms. Didn’t I?
The reasoning behind the judge’s decision comes to light when he slams down his gavel while reciting, “I hereby sentence Nikolai Popov to serve bail under the terms of house arrest at Unit 23 431 West Lucy Lane, Las Vegas.”
I leap up from my chair, certain I’ve heard him wrong. That isn’t Nikolai’s address. It’s mine.
“That’s not the correct address,” I blubber out, my words garbled with panic. “You’ve made a mistake.”
The judge glares at me. His stare is wrathful, but not potent enough to stop me from saying, “Please check. Someone has made a mistake. If not you, someone else.”
“I don’t make mistakes, young lady,” the judge sneers, churlish at my lack of confidence.
My rebuttal entombs in my throat when the judge quickly adds on, “And if another insult leaves your lips, I’ll hold you in contempt of court.”
Ignoring Nikolai’s heated glance, I stand frozen, working the facts through my head on repeat. No matter which way I look at it, this is a lose-lose situation for me. Surviving three days in lockup are just as dire as being housed with a criminal mastermind whose quickest glance has my heart racing with an incalculable amount of excitement. I truly don’t know whether to continue arguing or bow down and accept I’ve made another costly mistake.
My deliberation is cut short when the ringing of the City Hall bells follows the judge’s brisk exit from the chambers. They chime five times, announcing the likelihood of altering the judge’s decision is improbable to say the least. It’s 5 PM, the Friday of Fourth of July weekend, and I’ve just been awarded an unwanted house guest.
