Faithless: A High School Bully Romance (The Privileged of Pembroke High Book 3)

by Ivy Fox

  Head held high, but lips sealed shut.

  “No,” my love answers him.

  “Never,” my baby sister replies.

  “Good,” my twin and I both say in unison, happy that, at least for today, they are going to behave and do as they’re told.

  Both Ash and I are fully aware the girls are having a hard time not going to the police with the truth. It’s fucking killing them inside not to follow their natural-born instincts of doing the right thing. But Rome would lose his shit if either of them even stepped one foot into a precinct with the intention of coming clean.

  If I were confident that Rome would be freed and Snow wouldn’t be implicated by explaining to Detective Gomez what actually went down, then I’d be all for it and drive the girls myself to the nearest police station. But I’ve seen too many court cases under my father’s roof to know that the justice system isn’t infallible and is full of prejudices.

  My father was highly esteemed by this city, while Snow is a stranger to it. Worse even, as everyone still remembers Craig West’s traitorous ways, all they’ll conclude is that maybe the apple didn’t fall far from the deceitful tree. Even if we swore up and down that my father’s murder was nothing but self-defense, who would believe us?

  No one, that’s who.

  Being the daughter of one of the most hated men in New York City, marked Snow’s fate. Even her own mother wouldn’t stand up for her, and neither would this city. They wouldn’t see an innocent girl who had been shit out of luck for all her life, which only worsened when she came into our home; they would only see an opportunist whose plan of seducing her stepfather went awry.

  Everyone knows Addison had an affair with our father, and if Rome’s intel is right, then it wouldn’t be a big leap to think that another young teenage girl would easily fall to her knees for the bastard willingly enough. I would never roll the dice like that on Snow’s safety or her freedom. As much as it pains her not to tell the truth, it just isn’t a risk I could ever take. And neither would any of my brothers.

  I give my girl another once-over, and the resolve inside her takes my breath away. Not able to contain my awe of her silent strength, I lean in and press a gentle kiss on her lips.

  “What was that for?” she asks, as a tug of a shy smile makes its way to the corner of her cupid-bow lips.

  “For good luck,” I tell her, even though I know we can’t rely on mere chance to get us out of this mess.

  “We won’t need luck. Rome is coming home. Today,” Elle adds confidently. As much as I want to share in her conviction, I know the real world doesn’t always play nice, nor is it fair for that matter.

  Sure, Rome has an assembly of the best defense lawyers we can afford, but this is a murder trial—one the police doesn’t have any other suspects for, save for our older brother. This means the district attorney won’t be holding back any punches to make sure this witch-hunt goes his way.

  These types of high-profile cases can make or break a career, and from what I’ve heard, District Attorney Abe Rosenblum has huge aspirations for himself. The governor’s chair is the carrot at the end of the stick for him, so this murder case landing in his lap is the perfect opportunity for him to make a name for himself and milk as much publicity as he can.

  I couldn’t give two fucks what the DA’s motives are in trying to condemn my brother to life imprisonment since I’m still trying to add all the pieces together why the NYPD went after Rome in the first place. My gut tells me something just isn’t adding up. Why did the police even think that what happened to our father wasn’t just an accident as we staged it out to be? There must have been something that made them look into the incident with a different mindset. Maybe something that we did wrong or didn’t account for, which sparked a sliver of doubt in our story and made them take a second look into what happened that night. For the life of me, I haven’t figured out what that could have been, but since Rome’s arrest, I’ve done nothing other than trying to piece the puzzle together.

  “We ready?” Ash asks one last time before we face the music, bringing me out of my reverie.

  “Let’s get this show over with,” Elle spews, her cold expression tattooed to her face.

  I take another long look at my baby sister and verify that something has changed inside her. It could be just this shit that’s happening with Rome, but my intuition is telling me something else is also troubling her, making her a bit more abrasive and rash than she usually is. It could be just my imagination, but Elle has always been a kind spirit, even when facing such difficult obstacles. But right now, all I see in my sweet, compassionate sister is a warrior—a soldier ready for battle, with little care of who she has to trample on to win. Well, I guess in a way we are going to war, so maybe she’s the one who is right in putting a determined force field around her. We’ll need all the ammunition we’ve got at our disposal to win this fight. And no matter who goes down for the count, we have to make sure we’re the ones left standing.

  Schooling my own features, I ask our driver to open the door. In one minute flat, we are right smack at the center of all the media hoopla that awaited us on bated breath. Since Rome’s arrest, there’s been little talk of anything else. Every social media site, news channel, and radio station has been referring to the murder of the great Judge Malcolm Grayson nonstop as if it’s the trial of the century and one not to miss.

  “Asher!”

  “Oliver!”

  “Eleanor!”

  “Eleanor!”

  “Eleanor!”

  For every yell and shout Ash and I get, Elle gets three more directed her way. If these fucking vultures think she’s the weakest link amongst us, they are sorely mistaken—an error in judgment they quickly recognize by her poise and arctic glare.

  Elle is a true force of nature, and as she passes each camera, she looks regal with her head up and her crown in place. No one can deny her resolute splendor. Instead of the paparazzi calling defeat, they just badger her further. It’s as if these bastards are hard up, and love the chase Elle’s giving them.

  Thankfully, I don’t hear anyone calling out Holland’s name, which settles my nerves a bit. Them not bothering Snow in any way, means they deem her irrelevant. As long as that keeps up, then the press is one less concern regarding her wellbeing.

  When we finally make it upstairs, Elle goes directly to the lawyers with a stern stride, with Ash at her heel, wanting to get an update on the case. She’s been vigilant as ever, and with Ash standing at her side, he makes sure the lawyers show her the same respect they would have shown Rome if the roles were reversed.

  Our family has always had a slew of lawyers at our beck and call, but for this type of defense, we decided to call the Coen brothers. In California, the Coen brothers might stand for the Hollywood elite, but in our city, that surname means you’re talking about the most cutthroat defense team money can buy. They’ve never lost a case, and right now, we’re banking that their winning streak will continue. Luckily for us, Mark and Joel Coen don’t like losing either, so we know they’ll do whatever it takes to get Rome out of that jail cell and back home where he belongs.

  After we had a small update on what to expect in today’s proceedings, we trail behind them to the courtroom, which is already at full capacity.

  “This doesn’t look good,” Ash mumbles beside me, not liking the disgruntled looks we’re getting as we pass by each pew.

  “Remember what Joel said. It’s an initial hearing. It doesn’t have to look good, as long as Rome comes home.”

  He gives me a noncommittal nod before we take our seats, right behind the defendant’s chair, and wait for our brother to arrive. I take my seat behind our lawyers, followed by Snow, Elle, and Ash to my left, all anxiously waiting for this to begin. Unfortunately, we hear the murmurs and hushes behind us. The audience gossips and speculates without a care whether we hear every damning word or not.

  “I heard he bashed that poor man’s head
in when he came home drunk after he spent all night partying.”

  “Yes. It’s just awful. I heard he’s never been the same since his mother died and that he blamed his father for it. She was an addict, too. A true pill popper.”

  “That must be where he got it from. That poor man.”

  “He raised those kids all on his own, and this is the thanks he gets. It’s a shame we no longer have the death penalty. If anyone deserved to fry, it would be that ungrateful murderer.”

  I grip Snow’s hand in mine when I feel her whole body tense up with each defaming word we hear. Elle, however, isn’t as subtle and turns her head to the whispering spectators at our back, giving them all her evil eye.

  “Elle,” Ash grunts, placing his arm over her shoulder. “Fuck those pricks. They don’t know us, so don’t pay them any attention. They don’t deserve any space in that beautiful head of yours anyway, lil’ sis.”

  Elle straightens her spine and faces front, her jaw ticking a mile a minute. It’s never been her nature to take shit from anyone, but right now, she knows that nothing she can say will change the minds of the people who have already been brainwashed by the media.

  Snow is white as chalk beside me, looking like she’s going to be sick, as the rumor mill only heightens behind us. It’s only when Rome enters the courtroom—wearing an orange jumpsuit—that the hushed whispers come to a halt. It seems the crowd prefers to delight themselves witnessing my brother in chains, than defaming him with words.

  Fuck. I’m going to be sick.

  This is wrong. This is so fucking wrong.

  Neither Snow nor Rome deserves to be here. It was my father who was the monster, not them.

  A little, soft cry leaves Snow’s lips as she pulls harder on my hand, grabbing it with so much force that she’s bound to crack a bone. Not that I care. Let her break whatever she needs, as long as it’s not her heart.

  Rome looks over at us, his amber eyes distraught and somber, but he’s still able to throw a gentle smile our way. I know it’s more for Elle and Snow’s benefit than it is for me or my twin. Unlike the girls, he knows that we understand the reason why he hasn’t said a word, and why he’s letting this charade continue. If he thinks that anyone—I mean, anyone—can even suspect Snow in having any part about our father’s death, then he is more than happy to take the bullet for her.

  The minute he turns to talk to the Coens, Snow discreetly wipes her tears away. The last thing Rome needs is to see how much she’s hurting, and she knows it.

  I can’t help but feel somewhat responsible for the suffering and misery my family is going through. I should have let the fucker die. Then none of us would have to deal with this shit. Sure, the media would have gone on a total rampage when they discovered he had died, but I think that, at the time, the police would have really believed us if we said we came home and found him dead already. His death would be seen as an accidental one, nothing more. But since I wouldn’t allow either of my brothers to have blood on their hands, the fucker endured.

  During the time he was lying down like a vegetable in the hospital bed, the police got more inquisitive somehow, and less inclined to believe our makeshift tale.

  I need to know what happened between then and now for it to go so off the rails. I can’t shake the feeling of thinking that maybe it wasn’t something we did wrong, but rather someone who tipped off the cops. Perhaps a certain someone lit the match under the NYPD’s ass and made it burn hot enough to get their attention.

  I look around the room to confirm the presence of the person whom I believe to be responsible for this chaos, and sure enough, I encounter a weeping Vivienne on the other side of the pew, right behind the DA who will represent the victim—aka, her dead-as-a-doornail bastard of a husband.

  Fucking bitch needs to get her karma, but it looks like she’s not going to be as unlucky as our father. Right at her side, sit the Mannings and the Hursts, and behind her, I see more familiar, high-society faces showing their support. Guess Vivienne brought her A-team with her. Not that I expect anything less from the witch. She likes an audience, and right now, she’s bathing in the attention she so much enjoys, even if it comes at the expense of sending an innocent man to jail.

  Snow begins to turn her head to find the recipient of my death glare, and before I have time to stop her, I see how the malicious smirk on Vivienne’s lips turns up, triumphantly so.

  “Don’t give her the pleasure, Snow. She’s no one to you,” I affirm bitterly, giving the witch my nastiest scowl.

  “She never was,” Snow replies, her shoulders straightening to show she isn’t one bit affected by the woman’s presence.

  Before I’m able to say anything else on the matter, I hear the bailiff announcing the start of the proceedings.

  “All rise for the honorable Judge Katz,” announces the bailiff, and everyone in the courtroom silently obeys.

  Wearing the traditional black robe, the judge emerges from a side door looking a bit off-put. She takes her seat and adds, “Please be seated, ladies and gentlemen.”

  We follow suit as she begins to read the paperwork in front of her. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen. I’m calling to commence the initial hearing case of the People of the State of New York versus Roman Grayson for the murder of Judge Malcolm Grayson. Are both sides ready to begin?” she continues, eyeing my brother up and down under her small, rectangular, purple-framed glasses.

  “Ready for the People, Your Honor,” the assistant district attorney replies as her mentor sits beside her, taking notes.

  Fuck. DA Rosenblum is either being a cocky asshole, not taking the lead on this case, or he just wants to leave us unnerved, thinking he’ll come with guns blazing when the time is right. Either way, the first few seconds of this hearing are already pissing me off.

  “The defense is ready, Your Honor,” Mark Coen states, broadcasting his million-dollar-retainer-fee smile.

  “Very well,” the judge replies, unimpressed with his cheek-to-cheek grin. “There might be enough cameras outside my courtroom to insinuate this is some sort of cinematographic affair, but I assure you, no one here will have the red carpet treatment. Now, let’s begin.” With these words, Rome and the Coen brothers stand. “Roman Grayson, you have been charged with murder in the first degree. How do you plead?”

  “Not guilty, Your Honor,” Rome replies.

  “And where do we stand on bail? This is your cue, Ms. Kelleher,” the judge adds when there is no immediate response.

  “Shit. This one is a ball buster for sure.” I hear Ash hush out, and I instantly see Elle elbow him in the rib to shut his face. Good thing, too, since we don’t want to give Judge Katz any motive to dislike our family more than she probably already does. That little jab she made about the publicity this case is getting right from the get-go, was definitely directed at our family’s privileged reputation.

  Assistant District Attorney Abigail Kelleher clears her throat, trying to show confidence after the judge’s little quip, but unfortunately for us, it wasn’t enough to rattle her cage. The following words that leave her mouth strangle my own in my throat.

  “Due to the heinous nature of this crime, and specifically the murder of an esteemed colleague of this very judicial system—a loss that will be felt for decades to come—we believe that Mr. Roman Grayson’s release would pose a threat to the citizens of the great state of New York. And with his financial resources of billions, we consider him to be a flight risk. Therefore, the state strongly recommends Your Honor to deny bail.”

  “Mr. Coen, what do you have to say?” Judge Katz asks without even blinking, completely unaffected by the prosecution’s statement.

  If Ms. Kelleher thought that would win brownie points by reminding the judge that Rome is on trial for the murder of the great Judge Grayson—a colleague that no doubt crossed paths with Judge Katz—then she is shit out of luck. I can’t tell if there was any love lost between dear old dad and the judge ruling
this trial, but whatever the case, it doesn’t look like she gives a shit one way or the other. Guess that bodes well for us.

  “Your Honor, we request that our client be released on his own recognizance, seeing as he is a valued member of this city by his own right. He has no priors, nor has there ever been such a charge put against him larger than a parking ticket. Roman Grayson is the head of the Grayson Foundation, one that many people in this city need and rely on. Without his presence, the foundation will be at a loss, and many who rely on it will suffer from his absence. Furthermore, Your Honor, the defense would also like to point out that the state’s evidence supporting the allegations against our client is lacking, to say the least. Though we have requested discovery, the prosecution has provided no actual evidence suggesting our client’s guilt. We even dare to go as far as believing the initial arrest of our client to be unjustified.”

  “Your Honor, we aren’t here to discuss the facts of this case today,” Ms. Kelleher snaps, cutting her eyes at Mark Coen. But he isn’t impressed with her side-eyed glare in the least.

  “Any effort to charge my client must be based on credible evidence, Your Honor. Evidence that the state has been incapable of providing. Seemingly, the only item the prosecution is basing their case on is merely an anonymous source—one that we only learned about their existence, just twenty minutes before this hearing began. The defense feels that the district attorney is already acting in bad faith, and this case hasn’t even had its first fair day of trial.”

  “Objection, Your Honor. The counselor is speculating,” Ms. Kelleher accuses.

  “Your Honor, with all due respect to the court, we strongly disagree. Our client has been arrested for the death of his father, even though a proper autopsy has yet to be completed. The defense is basing their case solely on Dr. Nassir’s findings and professional opinion on the head wound that caused the deceased to be hospitalized for the past four months. One man’s opinion, however credible it may be, cannot be taken as actual evidence of foul play.”