When Heroes Fall (Anti-Heroes in Love 1)

Dante leaned farther back in his chair and knocked his knuckles against the table twice, studying his chains with a bored consideration. “I think there was some mention of murder.”

I fought the urge to snort at his insolence. “Yes, Mr. Salvatore. As I understand it, they’ve arrested you on suspicion of murder, racketeering, and fraud under the federal RICO Act.” Then, as if speaking to an idiot because I wasn’t certain he understood the gravitas of his situation, “These are very serious charges that could level you with twenty-five years to life behind bars.”

Dante blinked those long-lashed, liquid black eyes at me as he lightly drummed his thick fingers against the table. He wore a ring on one finger, a thick band of silver with some ornate crest in the middle. It shouldn’t have been attractive, as gaudy as it was, but it only served to draw attention to those powerful hands, the muscle dense in his palms, veins threading through the tops up into lightly furred forearms peeking out from the jumpsuit.

My mouth went dry, and irritation flared. I was not the kind of woman to find something so uncouth attractive.

Man-killing hands, I reminded myself curtly and then affixed my stare just over his right shoulder so my untamed thoughts wouldn’t run free.

“If I am found guilty,” he agreed mildly even though that intense gaze belayed his faux ennui. “But Cosima has told me before you are very good at your job. Are you saying you will not be able to clear me of this?”

I glared at him, the arched brow, the too-red mouth a half-moon of humor. “As you know, I won’t be the lead on your case. I’m twenty-seven and a fourth-year associate.”

“A soldata,” he murmured. “Not a capo.”

“Please do not link me even metaphorically to the mafia,” I asserted coldly. “I am a lawyer on the right side of the law.”

His lips twitched, his insolence grating on my nerves. “Yet you have no qualms about representing a man on the wrong side of it?”

“Normally, no. Though I usually stay as far away from organized crime as I can. But when my sister asks me to do something for her, I will move heaven and earth to do it. Even if it goes against my own moral judgment.”

I watched his eyes dance and wondered at his ability to find joy in teasing me when he was in such a place and position. It made me want to shake him. Did he not understand that there were consequences for his actions?

Contrary to popular belief, being good-looking and rich was not a get-out-of-jail-free card.

“And do you think law and morality are one and the same, Elena?” The way he said my name was indecent, a long, slow blurring of vowels and a flick of his tongue over the consonant.

“‘Law is reason, free from passion,’” I quoted. Aristotle’s words had always resonated with me. Not just in my legal profession but throughout my life. If I could understand the reason for something, I diminished its power over my emotions, therefore freeing myself from it.

If I had a philosophy, it was that.

“Is it so cut and dry?” Dante argued as if we were bantering over an espresso in some piazza, enjoying a two-hour lunch in our mother country.

I hesitated, sensing a trap, but was distracted by this buzzing irritation I felt beneath my skin. “Usually.”

“The Scottsboro Boys Trial?” he countered immediately, rearing back slowly before coiling forward over the table. He was close enough I could smell him, something sharp and tangy like sun-warmed citrus. “Those boys incarcerated for years because they were black? Amanda Knox? The LA Times postulates that the rate of wrongful convictions is between two and ten percent. Yet you believe absolutely in the law?”

I spoke through the snarl of my twisted lips. “Do not be ridiculous. The law is practiced by humans who are never infallible. To hope for zero mistakes is foolish. You don’t strike me as the foolish type.”

Dante only quirked that thick right brow. “You see things in black and white,” he surmised, disappointment evident in his tone. He sank back in his seat like a deflated balloon, and bizarrely, I felt as if I’d failed some test.

He was wrong, but something about his demeanor made me want to confirm his worst beliefs about me. I had the bad habit of living up to people’s worst assumptions and cutting off my nose to spite my face, just because my feelings were hurt that they would think so little of me.

My therapist called it a “self-fulfilling prophecy.”

I called it survival instinct.

So I only tipped my chin haughtily and looked down my nose. “I suppose you don’t.”

“Black and white and red,” he said with a wink.

“Mr. Salvatore,” I huffed. “You can’t be so unfazed as you seem. This is a privileged meeting, so you don’t have to play the innocent with me, and honestly, I would prefer bluntness. If you can manage it.”