Page 4 of Overruled

Two

Dani

“Do you have those files on the Preston case?”

I glance up from my desk to where Nate is lingering in the doorway.

He’s older than me at thirty-five, but his cornsilk-blond hair and bright blue eyes give him a boyish sort of look that makes you want to baby him.

It’s something he capitalizes on frequently. The man has dimples, for Christ’s sake.

I jerk my head toward the top of the filing cabinet. “There are copies there.”

“Cramming for your Italian madame?”

“Basically.” I shake my head as I continue reading through the article I found online. “Did you know she comes from her own money? Her family are the Loredans.” When Nate gives me a blank look, I add, “As in Loredan Jewelry.”

“Yeah, I don’t follow.”

“This is why you don’t have a girlfriend,” Vera snorts as she pops up in my doorway. “They’re like the Italian Cartier.”

Vera regards Nate with the same level of barely checked impatience that stems from his constantly badgering her, and like clockwork, I watch his gaze flicker over her face, lingering on her dark eyes and her warm brown skin with an interest I’m fairly certain she’s oblivious to.

Or maybe she’s aware and just isn’t interested.

Vera’s an absolute vault unless she feels like sharing; she has been since we graduated from law school together.

Nate’s mouth quirks. “Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“Wow, seriously,” Vera tuts. “It’s truly a wonder that you’re single.”

Nate makes a kissy face. “Just saving myself for you.”

“Guys.” I rub my temples. “Can we all pretend that this is the biggest case of my career for five seconds?”

“So if she’s rich…” Nate leans against the filing cabinet, crossing his arms. “Why is she pushing to fight the prenup? Why not just ditch the bastard and snag herself a pretty boy toy?”

“Really?” Vera cuts him a look. “If the prick really did cheat on her, he’s lucky she isn’t taking his balls.”

Nate’s eyebrows shoot up. “Tell me again how you’re single?”

“Saving myself for you,” Vera echoes blandly. She looks at me then. “I came to tell you that she’s here, by the way.”

I shoot up from my desk so fast that my knee knocks against the underside. “Fuck,” I mutter, rubbing the sore spot. “Why didn’t you lead with that?”

“I got her some coffee and set her up in the conference room. I figured you’d need a second to do some Lamaze or something before you go in there. You’ve been running around like a wild ferret all week.”

“That’s sweet of you,” I deadpan.

Vera shrugs. “That is what people say about me.”

“Lamaze is for pregnant women,” Nate points out.

Vera arches a brow in his direction. “How do you know that but not about Cartier?”

“I don’t have those answers for you,” Nate tosses back.

I blow out a steady breath, ignoring my coworkers and their back-and-forth. Usually, I’m more than happy to sit back and watch their weird mating ritual, but today I’m all nerves, which isn’t me.

“Okay,” I say, interrupting some argument about meditative breathing. “I’m going in.”

Nate shoots me a thumbs-up. “Good luck. Tell her I’m available if she comes around to the boy toy idea.”

“I doubt she has enough room to house your big head,” Vera scoffs.

Nate grins. “How many square feet is your place again?”

I grab my portfolio and my notes before I leave them behind in my office to make quick steps down the hallway, my heart thudding in perfect time with each click of my heels against the sleek black tile.

The conference room door is closed as I approach, and I linger outside of it for a moment, smoothing my hands over my gray pencil skirt and straightening my red silk blouse as I take another fortifying breath.

“You’ve got this, Dani,” I mutter, reaching for the brass handle.

Mrs. Casiraghi sits on the opposite side of the long conference table in the center of the room, her back straight in the leather chair as she gingerly sips her coffee.

Her graying hair is pulled back in a sleek bun, her clothes neat and pressed and screaming subtle wealth.

She turns to look at me when I enter, her lips pressing into a faint line and her brow arching.

“Mrs. Casiraghi,” I greet her as I close the door behind me. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” I move to settle in a chair opposite her. “I’m Dani.” I reach across the table to offer her my hand. “Dani Pierce.”

Her steely blue eyes assess me, traveling down the front of me before climbing back to my face. “You don’t look like a Dani.”

“I’m sorry?”

“Dani is a child’s name,” she goes on, her accent giving her voice a slight edge. “Are you a child?”

“I…” Part of me is bristling, but another part notices that she doesn’t look as if she’s mocking me when she says this. It’s more like she’s sizing me up. “My full name is Danica.”

Her red lips part in a smile, her eyes crinkling at the corners. “Ah, yes. Much better. Danica sounds like a powerful woman.” She takes another sip of her coffee. “I like powerful women.”

This entire exchange is bizarre, but my mouth is still turning up at the corners. I decide, for whatever reason, I like Mrs. Casiraghi. “You strike me as someone who knows how to spot one from experience.”

“I used to think I was a powerful woman,” she muses quietly. “These days…I’m not so sure.”

“That’s where I come in,” I tell her with confidence. “Manuel told me a little about your situation, and of course I’ve had time this week to research you, but I was hoping to hear things straight from you, if I can.”

“Well, that is why I’m here,” she says. She eyes me again. “Are you married, Danica?”

I shake my head. “No, ma’am. Never took the plunge.”

“Pity.” She nods idly. “You are a pretty young woman.”

“And powerful,” I say with a grin.

Her lips twitch. “Yes, and that.”

I doubt that Mrs. Casiraghi has any interest in hearing all the things that ensure I will most likely never take the plunge—my parents’ farce of a marriage, Grant walking out of my life, my cynicism of the construct in general—so I keep the conversation focused on her.

“I’m surprised you would think it is a pity, given your situation,” I offer. “No offense intended.”

She waves me off. “No offense. It is not marriage I am angry at. Marriage is beautiful. It is my husband that betrayed me.”

“Of course.” I flip open my portfolio to the legal pad inside, grabbing a pen and unclicking it. “Can you tell me more about it?”

“There is another woman,” she tells me.

“I’m very sorry to hear that.”

“It is Lorenzo who will be sorry.”

My lips twitch. I might really like Mrs. Casiraghi.

“That’s the idea,” I tell her. “Manuel says you have proof of his infidelity?”

“He has been calling her,” she answers coldly. “I have records that I pulled. There are emails also. My husband is surprisingly crass with his mistress. I can’t imagine why woman would want to be wooed with talk of his cock.” She clicks her tongue. “It hardly works anymore.”

I have to bite my lower lip to hold back a laugh as I make notes. “You have copies of these exchanges?”

“Of course. His assistant is as spineless as he is.” She reaches down to a clasped leather bag and starts pulling out manila folders. “The little man was shaking when I made him let me into Lorenzo’s office.”

I take the folders from her, flipping through them. “I have to warn you that even with evidence like this, the defense is going to say that it’s circumstantial. They’ll claim he was hacked, or that someone else was using his computer, or any number of things.”

“I am aware that Lorenzo will try to slither his way out of his own mess,” she says. “But as you say. This is where you come in, yes?”

A slow smile creeps onto my face. “Right. That’s where I come in.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

“I’m going to do everything in my power to make sure your husband pays for his indiscretions, Mrs. Casiraghi.”

She tilts her chin, looking me in the eye. “Call me Bianca.”

“Bianca.” I nod back at her. “Another name for a powerful woman.”

Her answering smile is cool, almost predatory. “Let us hope so, Danica.”

···

“How did it go?”

I run my fingers through my hair, noticing Manuel in my doorway. “I think it went well. I gave her a list of all the information I need on her finances, and we went over what she can expect going forward.”

“And? What are your thoughts about her chances?”

“The evidence she mentioned is mostly just phone records and email printouts. Nothing concrete, unfortunately, but she seems to think that some digging will reveal more.” I smile, remembering. “Her exact words were ‘my husband is not as brilliant as he thinks himself to be.’?”

“I got the impression that Mrs. Casiraghi is not a woman to be fucked with,” Manuel chuckles.

“So did I. Nate and Vera both agreed to help with discovery. I imagine there will be a lot of records to dig through.”

“Good,” he tells me. “We need all hands on deck with this one.”

“I think our chances are good, considering. I’m optimistic.”

“Well, one of us has to be.”

I snort. “And we both know that isn’t going to be you.”

“It isn’t one of my strong suits. Have you told your parents yet?”

I frown. “Not yet. I wanted to wait until after I’d actually spoken to Bianca.”

“I’m sure they’ll want to celebrate.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“It’s not the most terrible thing in the world that your parents are such good friends, Dani.”

I scowl at him, hating that he can read me so well. “It might be when they’ve been divorced for fourteen years.”

“In our line of work, we call that the perfect divorce.”

I don’t respond to that, just shake my head.

Manny and I have a different opinion on my parents’ “perfect divorce.” He knows I don’t think such a thing really exists.

If there aren’t any perfect marriages—and I’ve long decided there aren’t, since the one I held to the highest standard was never real—then it stands to reason that there can’t be a perfect version on the opposite end of the spectrum.

Once you find out the life you knew was a lie, you stop believing in a lot of things.

“I’ll call them tonight,” I tell him instead.

“Good. Your dad and I are golfing Sunday, and you know I hate lying to him.”

“I’m aware. It’s annoying, really.”

He gives me a small smile. “Make sure to keep me updated on things with the Casiraghi case.”

“Your office is thirty feet from mine. I can just shout when I have news.”

He rolls his eyes. “Whatever works.”

He pushes away from the doorframe as if he’s moving to leave, and I stop him.

“Do we know who the husband has hired yet?” I notice Manuel wince, and a foreboding feeling creeps through my limbs when he turns back to give me a withered look. “No.”

“I’m told Mr. Casiraghi called Hart and Associates last Wednesday.”

“Goddamn it,” I huff. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to get any more stressed out about your meeting with Bianca. I know how weird you get where Ezra Hart is concerned.”

A flush creeps up my neck, and with my pale complexion, I know it will be noticeable. “I do not get weird ,” I bite out. “I just hate the guy.”

When I’m not fucking him, that is.

“He’s not my favorite person,” Manuel offers, “and it’s going to make winning that much harder, but you’ve beaten him before.”

Not as many times as I’d like, I think bitterly.

“I’m sure he’s already crafting some bullshit defense about how the woman Lorenzo has been emailing is his personal trainer, and that’s why she’s so interested in his body.”

Manuel laughs. “Most likely. You’ll just have to find something Ezra can’t twist. You can’t skirt around solid evidence.”

“Right.” I nod, mostly to myself. “ Right. I’m going to kick his ass.”

Manuel winks as he turns to go. “I have no doubt, kid.”

I sit at my desk and fume for a few more minutes, thinking about the stupid texts Ezra has sent this week where he conveniently left out that he’d be my opposing counsel.

I sure as hell hadn’t waited more than a day before bragging about possibly representing Bianca.

Did he know then? My earlier smugness now makes me feel a little embarrassed.

God, he was probably laughing at me the entire time.

I snatch my phone from the corner of my desk, opening our text thread and furiously shooting one off.

Me: How long have you known you were representing Lorenzo Casiraghi?

I watch the dots appear with narrowed eyes, waiting for his response.

Asshole: At least a few days before your charming text. Did you end up landing the missus?

Me: You’re the literal worst person I know.

Asshole: Aw. I miss you too.

He sends me a GIF of Paul Rudd on the Hot Ones show saying “Look at us. Who would have thought?” and I roll my eyes.

Me: You know you won’t be able to bullshit your way through this one. Mr. Casiraghi doesn’t seem the type to have “spiritual advisors.”

Asshole: Are you implying something about my methods, Dani?

Me: That they’re bullshit. Yes.

Asshole: I’m wounded. Are we fighting? I hate it when we fight. Maybe you should come over so we can talk about it.

Me: You’d like that wouldn’t you?

His reply takes a bit longer than his previous ones, and I don’t notice my teeth pressing against my bottom lip until it pops up on the screen.

Asshole: I promise you, Dani. We’d both like it if you came.

I shift in my desk chair, remembering the last time I’d been to his place.

Heat courses through me, the memory of his tongue on me and his body against mine leaving me disgusted with myself but still entirely horny.

I hate that he always seems to catch me when I’m at my most stressed, that he knows orgasms are my weakness when I’m wound this tightly.

I can’t go to his place again. I know I will regret it tomorrow. I know .

I hear a ping as another text comes through.

Asshole: I’ve been thinking about touching you all week.

I grit my teeth, closing my eyes as a shudder passes through me.

I am not going to his place.

I’m not.