Prologue
“All rise,” the bailiff announces as the judge enters the courtroom.
The defendant lazily pulls himself to his feet, throws his public defender a menacing glare, then turns his deep set brownish-yellow eyes to the floor in front of his table. He’s of medium stature, not big, not small, but hate and venom are set in his face. His mousy light brown hair is slightly dirty and slicked back with a few strands falling forward. The darkness around his sunken eyes are evidence of the life he’s chosen, those choices leading to him standing where he is today.
The courtroom, now standing is silent and stagnant, the only thing heard are papers rustling as the judge settles to read the verdict handed over by the bailiff. The breath released audibly by the judge cuts through the courtroom like a knife, as he tosses his reading glasses to the desk. He hands the papers containing the judgment of the jury back to the bailiff.
“Foreman of the jury,” the bailiff starts. “On the count of First Degree Murder, do you the jury find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”
The Foreman clears his throat and answers, “Not guilty.”
Immediately a mummer hovers over the room, forcing the judge to slam his gavel and demand, “Quiet! There will be no speaking while court is in session.”
The media have assembled, crammed into the standing room only courtroom and are scratching notes, preparing for breaking news of the verdict for the high-profile crime.
The bailiff continues. “On the count of Second Degree Murder, do you the jury find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”
“Not guilty,” the foreman repeats.
“On the count of Second Degree Murder with Aggravating Circumstance, do you the jury find the defendant guilty or not guilty?”
The foreman takes a beat to pull in a breath, then answers, “Guilty.”
Disregarding the judge’s demand for quiet, the courtroom becomes a mass of energy as those from the media hastily exit the room, doors banging behind them, in hopes to be the first to report the verdict for the heinous crime that has shaken their community. The victims’ family can be heard shedding tears. Finally, the defendant’s brothers become wired and irate. These aren’t the kind of brothers one is born to. These are the kind of brothers one acquires through a life of crime and malevolence, requiring each other to survive.
As the judge and the bailiff go through the intricacies of the court proceedings, polling the jury, and setting a date for sentencing, the defendant doesn’t hear a word.
Instead, in his ill-fitting cheap suit the public defender provided, he glares across the aisle through evil eyes and immediately starts planning vengeance.
Chapter One
The Laundry Room Goddess
Almost twenty-five years later.
I cannot believe my eyes when I see a big, bulky body in black carrying a shield, looking through a little window at the top with a gun trained on us. Yep. That’s right. A gun pointed straight at us. The shield reads POLICE in white letters across the front and the big person yells, “Stop. Get your hands up where we can see them.”
Megan stops, immediately letting out a high scream and I walk right into the back of her bumping her forward. We teeter on our heels, finally find our feet, but strangely enough we don’t put our hands up. Rounding the corner charge more big bodies in black wearing helmets, vests scribed with POLICE, donning black and gray camo pants with big black boots. But most importantly, I should note once again, they all have guns. Pointed. At. Us.
“Put your hands up,” the guy in front screams again, even more impatiently. Seemingly, our hands finally listen to our brains because we both put our hands up, me still somewhat in back of Megan. “Move, hands to the wall, now,” he bellows. Our bodies finally wake up and we both shuffle to the wall.
“What is going on?” Megan shrieks, at the same time I ask no one in particular, “What the hell?”
“FBI and ATF,” a loud voice informs, coming from behind us. “We have a warrant to search the premises.”
Megan, finding her bitch from within, and I’m thinking she didn’t have to dig deep, replies, “You can’t just barge into my house.”
“Ma’am, we have a Federal Warrant to search your home so settle down, we’re gonna be here a while.” His tone is irritable to say the least.
“How did you get in?” Megan demands.
“Lady with the vacuum,” is the big guy’s only answer.
“I can’t believe it. I’m firing them all,” Megan fumes, turning her face to the wall.
Ohmygoodness.
My heart is beating through my chest. I mean, I’m an interior decorator for heaven’s sake. How does this happen, standing in the hallway of my high school friend’s house with my hands against the wall? The past few years I’ve gone out of my way to make sure my life is mundane, if not seriously boring. I’ve lived through some not fun times and believe you me, I’ll take mundane any day of week.
“We’ve gotta secure the premises,” the voice informs us. “But first I’ve gotta ask, do either of you have any weapons?”
“Of course not,” Megan throws over her shoulder with a dirty look. “I have three small children—do I look like I would carry a weapon?”
“Oh shit,” I mutter under my breath and squeeze my eyes shut as I drop my head between my arms.
“What? You have a gun?” Megan screeches at the same time the air in the room goes tense.
“Um…” I open my eyes to look up at her shocked face and then over my shoulder. “I have a license?” I say, but my answer comes out as a question to the big group of men dressed in black. “It’s in my purse, here I’ll get it for you.” I take my hand away from the wall, reaching for my silver and cream purse still hanging from my shoulder. But all of a sudden, my wrist is in a vice grip, pulled tight behind my back and I can’t help but let out a surprised scream.
“Don’t move.” A new, deep raspy voice comes from in back of me. I find myself pressed flat with my chest against the wall, my other wrist joining the vice grip of the first, forcing my head to the side. “Why are you carryin’?”
“Ah…well.” I’m at a loss for words, trying to take in my new precarious position. “I always have my gun with me. I have a Conceal and Carry—it’s in my purse. Look for yourself.”
My purse is roughly yanked down my shoulder, the vice grip barely loses hold to get it off my arm. I see him toss it to someone in back of us before I hear the clanking of metal when suddenly, I sense them—cold and hard on my wrists. I suck in a breath and feel the metal bite into my skin, only to realize I’ve been handcuffed.
“What?” my panicked voice whispers in a high pitch.
“I cannot believe you have a gun.” Megan enunciates every syllable using all the drama she can muster, I’m sure. “You brought a gun into my house. You are crazy Gabrielle Carpino. Cra-zee!”
I can’t concentrate on Megan’s drama. This is because all of the sudden I feel big, warm hands on my shoulders, sliding slowly down the sides of my cream silk tank, dipping under my breasts pressing just hard enough to make me shiver. The big hands hesitate slightly before pressing down my torso, rounding my waist, over my hips, and down the front of my thighs covering my gold pencil skirt with the cute little kick pleats along the back. I pull in a lung full of air when they glide over my ass and I feel warm hands come up my bare legs, one at a time, under my skirt on the inside of my thighs, causing an even deeper, very audible gasp.