Dirty Love (Dirty Girl Duet #2)

by Meghan March

  This is news to me, since the inner workings of the mob aren’t exactly common knowledge in my bubble. Which brings up my next question.

  “Were you a soldier?”

  Cav’s expression shutters. “Does it matter? That’s my past.”

  I shrug, but my curiosity level is climbing now that he’s dodged the question.

  “So you were.” I take a stab at the truth.

  His gaze, greenish-gold today, meets mine. “I never had a real designation other than Dom’s errand boy.”

  It’s not a real answer, but I’m hesitant to push further. If it’s important, he’ll tell me. I’m not going to make wild conjectures in my head. We’ve come too far for that nonsense. I trust him.

  “So, what else did they say?”

  “Not much. Your uncle was found in a hotel in Midtown. Cause of death is still unknown. A heart attack is the speculation, or possibly something that mimicked a heart attack if it was truly foul play. The questioning is standard procedure. It isn’t a murder investigation . . . yet.”

  It’s the yet that has me wrap my arms around myself. Please, God, don’t let it come to that.

  We each spend the rest of the flight lost in our own thoughts.

  We head to my apartment as soon as we land.

  “Cannon had my phone last, the prick. I know he wouldn’t keep it, though.”

  I search all of the likely places he might leave it—desk, nightstand, top of my dresser—but I come up empty. When I return to the kitchen, Cav is standing by the bar and holds up a padded envelope. Its label—GREER KARAS, HAND DELIVERY. DO NOT MIX WITH ALCOHOL—gives me a clue as to the contents.

  “I think this is what you’re looking for.”

  I can’t keep a scowl from my face as I grab the package and tear it open. “At least he had the manners to turn it off and save the battery.”

  When the phone powers up, my notifications are out of control. I ignore them and make a call to Holly instead.

  “Are you at the penthouse? Are you okay? Have you heard anything? What’s going on?”

  Cav lifts the phone from my hand and press the button for speaker. I guess it makes sense, because there’s no point in me repeating the conversation to him. Holly’s Southern drawl comes through loud and clear.

  “That piece-of-shit bastard just had to screw with Crey one last time. I’m sorry, Greer, I know he was your uncle, but he was a prick.”

  “You’re not telling me anything I don’t already know.”

  “So the cops came by this morning and asked Crey to come down to the station and talk to them. They didn’t arrest him. Didn’t talk about bringing charges. They don’t even know how the bastard died yet. Hookers and blow, is my guess. Anyway, he got done with the interview and drove out to Westchester to find your aunt, and she’s MIA. So he’s been looking for her for two hours. Cannon’s trying to track her down too.”

  That’s Creighton, always trying to take care of everyone and everything.

  “When will they know the cause of death?”

  “The autopsy should be happening now, or maybe tomorrow if they don’t push it through. Obviously, a lot of people are wondering how he died.”

  “How are you? Are you okay?”

  “My ankles are swollen, I look like I swallowed a beach ball, and this kid keeps bouncing on my bladder. Just another day in the paradise of being knocked up with the next generation of the Karas dynasty.”

  I can’t help but laugh at her sarcastic response. “Do you need anything?”

  “I need Crey to get back here with dinner because I’m starving and the cupboards are practically bare in this place. He promised me pizza for dinner after this terrible chicken-and-rice nonsense we had delivered for lunch.”

  It’s the perfect intro for my other question. “What are you doing back in New York anyway? I thought you were staying in Nashville until the baby was born.”

  “Yeah, well, that’s my fault. I decided I wanted this baby to be born a New Yorker.”

  I wasn’t going to ask why that was, but considering the excellent care facilities in the city, it couldn’t be a bad decision.

  “Want me to bring you over some food? I can be there in thirty minutes with whatever you want.”

  “That’s sweet, but I’ll take a rain check. Crey should be here soon. If he isn’t, I’ll call you back.”

  “Okay. Take care, Holly. The offer’s on the table.”

  “’Bye, girl.”

  I hang up and look at Cav.

  “What are the chances it was hookers and blow?” The question seems contrary to my optimistic tone, and against all odds, Cav smiles.

  “We can always hope.”

  “Do you need to go find out more from your . . . people?” My question sounds hesitant, even to my ears.

  “I should. I’ll be back. Call me if you hear anything, and I’ll do the same.”

  “You’ve got a deal.”

  Cav pulls me in for a quick kiss before he heads for the door.

  Two hours later I’ve sorted through the texts and e-mails, and then I start on my voice mails. The first one leaves a rock sitting in the pit of my stomach as I listen to a key piece of Jade’s message again.

  “You got a letter from the court, and one of the partners opened it. You missed the filing deadline for your prisoners’ rights case, and they’ve been looking everywhere for the file. That prick Kevin Sunderberg told them he thought you took it with you.”

  “Shit. Are you kidding me?” I yell at the phone.

  It’s the case I took to give myself something to do, to redeem myself in some small way for being a fuckup, and I managed to screw that up too. There are two more voice mails from the firm, one from a paralegal asking about the file, and another from a partner requesting I call him immediately.

  Shit. In my head, the deadline was next week. But let’s be honest—I’ve barely thought about it. How could I be so irresponsible?

  I remember Cannon telling me he stuffed a file in my duffel to give me something to do in Kentucky, but obviously that didn’t work out the way anyone planned. Dropping to my knees beside the bag, I take everything out and find the file at the bottom. My heart in my throat, I flip it open and scan the pleadings. Sure enough, the filing deadline was last week. I suck.

  Jesus. What do I do now? It’s not like I can get fired again, but I can petition the court to waive the late filing, right? I’m a corporate lawyer, so it’s not like I know how this stuff works. My do-gooder case was supposed to be easy, but apparently not.

  I call the reception desk at Sterling & Michaels and get Jade. “Hey, it’s Greer. I just got your voice mail.”

  “Girl, you are so fucked. What were you thinking taking that case file if you weren’t going to do the work?”

  I open my mouth to explain the absolute insanity my life has become, and close it again. No one would believe these last couple of weeks.

  “It wasn’t intentional. I mean, I took the file intentionally, but I didn’t mean to miss the deadline. I’ve been out of touch with everyone for over a week.”

  “So I’ve heard. You sure know how to keep the office buzzing. You’re in the freaking papers more than Miley Cyrus lately.”

  “I know. Trust me; it’s been crazy.”

  “Crazy? Dating a movie star with a giant cock? Honey, I’d say your life is fucking amazing.”

  “It hasn’t been all orgasms and rainbows, Jade. I promise. Now, tell me what I need to do with this case.”

  “Well, I’m not a lawyer,” she starts, and I know damn well that Jade is almost done with her paralegal degree, so she probably knows more about litigation than I do at this point. “But wouldn’t you be best off getting your client to fire you so you can make a motion to withdraw? I mean, you blew the filing deadline, so it’s not likely he’s going to want to keep you on it anyway.”

  “Shit, if I send him a letter, I may never hear from him, and certainly not for weeks. Looks like I’m going to Rikers again
.”

  “Be careful, girl, that guy is a creep. I googled him after this all came out, and he’s not a good guy. I mean bad.”

  “Well, he’s in prison for murder, so that’s not all that surprising.”

  “Just watch yourself. If he agrees to fire you, call the partner and tell him, and he’ll get a paralegal to draft a motion for withdrawal and you’re done. Bring the case file back, and you never have to deal with it again.”

  “Thanks, Jade. You should be a lawyer, not me.”

  “That’s what I’ve been saying all along. Talk soon. I gotta grab another line.”

  She hangs up, and I lay my phone on the carpet beside the case file.

  I’m still sitting on the floor contemplating what a gigantic screwup I am when Cav returns.

  I spin around to face him. “Did you find out anything?”

  “Autopsy isn’t going to be done until tomorrow. Dom’s already back home. There’s nothing to pin on anyone until there’s a cause of death. Right now, the cops are getting overexcited.” He frowns down at me. “What are you doing on the floor?”

  I glance down, taking in all the clothes from my bag in messy piles around me, and the case file in front of me. “I . . . um . . . forgot I had to work on this case.”

  Part of me wants to spill the whole situation, that I screwed up, but another part of me doesn’t want Cav to know that I’m so irresponsible. This is one of those things I feel like he could live without knowing.

  Cav crosses the room and offers his hand. “Must have been pretty important if you had to tear your bag apart to get at it.”

  I shrug, crouching down to pick it up. “I forgot about the deadline.” There, that’s part of the truth.

  I walk over to the counter and set the folder down before returning to clean up the rest of the clothes. They all need to go in the laundry anyway. When I make my way back to the kitchen, Cav has the case file open, and a muscle ticks in his jaw.

  “This is the guy you went to see at Rikers?”

  I’m shocked he remembers, but then again, Cav seems to store away almost every detail I tell him.

  “Yeah.”

  He slaps the file shut. “Why the hell are you still on this case if you quit your job? It makes no sense. Give it back to the firm and have them deal with it. This isn’t the kind of scum you need to be dealing with. You’re better than that.” He turns to face me, his jaw tense, anger emblazoned on every feature.

  I’m not sure how to respond to him, but the one thing I’m definitely not going to tell him is about my upcoming trip to Rikers. So I give him the most truth I can.

  “I won’t be working on it much longer. I’m turning it back over to the firm.”

  “Good.” He scrubs his hand through his hair, the dark locks now deliciously messy. “I’m gonna take a shower, and then let’s get something to eat. Check with Holly about your brother and if she hasn’t heard from him, let’s take dinner over to her. Pregnant woman has to eat.”

  I’m touched by his concern for Holly. Cav’s a good man. “Sounds perfect. I’ve got a couple more calls to make, but I’ll be done by the time you get out.”

  Cav reaches out and pulls me into him for a hug and presses a kiss to my hair. “I love you, Greer.”

  It’s still so new to be saying the words on a regular basis, but they come so easily. “I love you too.”

  He releases me and heads for my bedroom. I kind of like how at home he feels in my space.

  I wait until I hear the water come on in the bathroom before I call Rikers and put in a request to see my client. It’s right at the end of the shift, and whoever is on the other line clearly just wants to get home.

  “That’s fine. I’m not checking with the prisoner today, though. Be here tomorrow by nine o’clock with the rest of the visitors, and if he refuses to see you, it’ll be a wasted trip. Up to you.”

  “That’s fine. I’ll be there.”

  Guilt for doing this behind Cav’s back gnaws at me, but this is my professional reputation I’m trying to salvage. And after tomorrow, it’ll all be over anyway, and we’ll go back to having no secrets between us.

  Have you ever had a premonition? Or even just an uneasy feeling that something is going to go horribly wrong? I can’t shake the feeling on the cab ride out to Rikers.

  Yes, cab ride. I could have called Ed, but then this trip would have been run through Creighton, and I definitely didn’t want my brother to know about it any more than I wanted Cav to be aware.

  I can’t shake that feeling, though, like something terrible is going to happen. With my luck lately, there’ll be a prison riot with a full lockdown, and I’ll get stuck inside. Cav and Creighton will have to tear Rikers apart brick by brick to get me out. I can only imagine the lecture I’d get from Creighton then.

  Maybe I should have brought Ed . . .

  Last night after I called the prison, I called Holly to see if she wanted some dinner, company, or both. Creighton had just walked in the door with her favorite fried chicken in the city, and she was happily moaning about how amazing it was. Creighton liberated the phone from her.

  “You’re home?”

  “Yes, I came as soon as I heard. Is there anything I can do?”

  Creighton sighed before replying, and once again I felt like the little sister who was a constant screwup. I’m not that girl anymore.

  “Nothing you can do. We’re all just waiting on the autopsy results, and that’ll determine what’s next.”

  “And Dom?” My question was quiet because I didn’t want Cav to overhear.

  “He’s in charge of looking out for himself. He doesn’t need either of us worrying about him.”

  That was probably the truth.

  “And Aunt Katherine?”

  “Elisabetta said the last she knew, she was heading to an overnight spa place and hadn’t come back yet. She didn’t remember which one. I’ve got Cannon trying to track her down.”

  So once again, my brother had everything under control, down to checking with the housekeeper. “Okay. Well, let me know if you need anything from me.”

  “Just stay out of trouble, Greer.”

  Again, the fuckup feeling grew exponentially.

  “Will do. Glad you’re okay, Creighton.”

  Recalling the conversation while in the back of a cab headed for Rikers Island almost surely makes it a little more ironic.

  “Just stay out of trouble, Greer.”

  That’s what I’m working on, brother dearest.

  I’ll be in and out, and no one will be the wiser. All I need is my client’s signature on the letter requesting my withdrawal from the case, and this will all become a bad memory.

  The process to get into the prison is almost as hard as getting out. Because I don’t have a formal appointment, I have to wait longer than I hoped, and the Saturday crowd waiting to visit loved ones is out of control.

  One woman waits with a baby bouncing on her lap. She’s dressed neatly in black pants and a pink-and-white striped shirt that matches the baby’s onesie.

  Is she visiting the father? I can’t even imagine what it would be like to have to stare at the man you loved through inches of bulletproof glass or across a table while he’s wearing a prison jump suit.

  I glance down at the clock on my phone for the seventy-seventh time. I told Cav this morning that I was going to meet someone from work because there were still some loose ends to tie up on my exit from the firm and handing over the case. I don’t know if he didn’t realize today was Saturday, but he didn’t ask any other questions.

  It isn’t a lie, I tell myself as the guilt creeps up again. But it definitely isn’t the whole truth either.

  Cav’s preoccupation could probably be chalked up to the fact that he was heading to meet Dom, which sounded more than a little ominous to me.

  Finally, an hour later, I’m called in to meet with Stephen Cardelli. A rush of relief sweeps through me because for the last thirty minutes, I truly thought he was go
ing to decline to meet, which would screw me on multiple levels. But he didn’t.

  As I walk into the interview room, I’m mentally rehearsing the very apologetic and persuasive conversation I’m about to have with Mr. Cardelli. I’m seated in the molded plastic chair bolted to the floor and table when the guard brings him in.

  His gray hair is greasy and falling over his forehead in chunks, and his skin is flushed red, either from exertion or something else. His faded blue gaze fixes on me and intensifies.

  I’ve never truly understood the real meaning of feeling my skin crawl until now. But under the scrutiny of Cardelli, I absolutely do. Both Jade and Cav’s warnings run through my head, highlighted in bright colors and underlined several times.

  “You’ve got fifteen minutes,” the guard says, locking Cardelli’s shackles into the bolts on the floor and table.

  This is new—and disturbing. Did something happen since last time to necessitate the extra security precautions?

  The man in front of me gives me a cruel, disgusting smile, and I know I’m not going to pose the question to him.

  He hasn’t even opened his mouth yet and I already know I’ve made a horrible mistake. I shouldn’t have come here. I should have let the firm deal with it.

  My belly flips with the premonition from earlier.

  “You got some good timing in some ways and shit timing in others,” Cardelli says.

  I launch into my rehearsed spiel right then. “I’m sorry, Mr. Cardelli; I owe you an apology. I missed the filing deadline on your case, and I’m not certain whether or not the court is going to waive it. They should because it was my mistake and not yours, but either way, it happened and the firm is going to try to fix it. Everyone agrees that the best alternative is to have another lawyer take over your case.”

  His expression grows thunderous. “You fucked my shit up? What the hell? You’re the fanciest lawyers in town. That ain’t right.”

  Sitting in front of this disgusting man, I actually feel guilt. He’s the one trapped behind bars, and I have the professional obligation to discharge my duties according to the rules of the court, and I couldn’t even do that. Now my solution to him is please let me off the case and maybe someone can fix it. This is his life, and all I care about is getting myself out of this situation. Nice, Greer.