Page 23 of Free to Judge

She shakes her head. “Not if they don’t know the meaning of loyalty, they aren’t.” With that statement, she strides toward the door.

Before she can open it, her mother pleads, “Kalie.” Just her name, but it holds a lifetime of love.

Kalie’s head twists and she meets her mother’s eyes—an unspoken, weighty conversation passing between them. I find my gaze locking onto Dalton. His eyes dissect the men in the room, as if he can see every hidden cavern beneath their carefully crafted facade.

Fuck.

The two women bow their heads together before Alison beckons Dalton to join them. After a few minutes of muffled conversation, Dalton announces, “My client agrees to your terms.”

All of the men let out a relieved sigh, as do I from miles away.

He holds up his hand. “However, if we even get a hint you are using her for some kind of alternate agenda, all deals are off.”

“What deal, Jared?” Keene asks warily.

Silence descends upon the room. I find myself holding my breath right along with the men when Kalie announces, “If I find out any of you are lying to me, I reserve the right to walk away.”

I release my breath. “That’s not so bad.”

But when I focus back in on the screen, I realize, if anything, the tension in the room is higher than ever. It might be explained by the burning defiance in Kalie’s eyes when she demands, “When is this debacle of a press conference taking place?”

That’s when her father pulls out the drafted press release and extends it to her. “As soon as you approve it.”

She snatches it away, muttering about self-righteous pricks.

The problem? I’m not certain if she’s talking about her father or me.

Though, if the look on her face is anything to go by, it’s anyone’s guess. Certain her muttering is actually an ancient incantation designed to hurl me straight into hell’s depths, I decide now’s a good time to get ready for the press statement I’m going to have to release after Kalie reads her own.

CHAPTER TWELVE

The room is shroudedin smoke and shadow despite its floor-to-ceiling windows on the fortieth floor. It offers a glittering nighttime view of the city. Inside, the room is carved out of ice—the kind of cold that isn’t about the number on the thermostat.

I stand at the far end of the table wearing exactly what they expect me to—an expensive suit and a sharper expression. I don’t take my seat. Not yet. Not until I’m advised to.

Doing so before I’m told could earn me a bullet from either side of the table splitting representatives from the largest crime families in the United States.

Three men from the Italian side occupy one side of the long table. Salt-and-pepper hair. Black suits. Hands too still. They haven’t touched the espresso in front of them. The silence between them is practiced. Tense.

The Irish contingent is sprawled across the other half. I almost did a double take when I sauntered in to find Keene’s biological father—Jack Marshall—as one of the men included on behalf of the Byrnes. My intel didn’t let me know he’d moved up in their ranks far enough to be attending a strategy meeting of this caliber. Instead, the bastard leans back like this is a poker night, one boot kicked up on the leg of another chair. In the background, Sid Tiberi’s aligned with the other lower ranked officers, quiet yet watchful.

“Should I be offended no one offered me a drink?” I mock as I lay my briefcase on the table.

The Italians immediately launch in. Vito Spiori, middle-aged, sharp-nosed. “You made a decision last week regarding the Barresi seizure. The paperwork delayed funds moving out of Florence. That interruption cost us.”

“It protected you,” I return evenly. “There was a tip-off in play—quiet, but close. My contact in the Rome courts confirmed a clerical eyes-on. You were about to be exposed.”

“We could’ve handled it our way,” Vito snaps. “You stopped the transfer. You disrupted operations without clearing it through us.”

“I stopped a collapse. You’d rather have the Guardia freezing your assets in real time?”

A cold beat of silence followed.

Then, from the Irish side, Jack chuckles. “Always the savior, aren’t you, counselor?”

I don’t blink. “Saviors preach. I read the fine print.”

That draws a soft laugh out of Sid. Even Jack’s lip curls with mild amusement.