A few of the other passengers, mostly younger guys, check her out because they either find her attractive or an easy mark. I tip my head back and meet their eyes with a threatening stare when they glance around as if considering making a move to speak to or rob her.
Heeding my silent warning, none of them go near Kirsten before her blue eyes finally open again. I duck my head to avoid her gaze; then she just gets up and walks off at the next stop.
I wait a total of two seconds before jumping up and following just as the doors close behind me.
By the time I catch up to her on the street, she’s approaching a waiting taxi. Thankfully, there are a few around this time of night, so I climb into the first one I see.
“Follow that taxi wherever it goes,” I instruct the driver.
The wrinkled old man doesn’t respond but does as I ask.
It takes nearly half an hour before Kirsten’s ride finally comes to a stop — right outside her apartment building in Upper Manhattan.
So, all that time on the subway was for nothing? She just wanted a long nap where she could’ve been mugged at any second, then went home alone?
I’m curious what the hell she was thinking and what the woman does up in her apartment by herself. All I can see is when her lights are turned on or off from the street level. She never comes near any of the windows to look out, as if she’s too busy to take even a moment to admire the city she lives in.
If I’m going to come up with the blackmail I need on her to make her drop the charges against me, Creed, and Andre, I need to find a way to convince her to take a night off.
Time to call in my contact in the district attorney’s office and see just how persuasive she can be.
3
Kirsten
“Areporter with The Post is on line one. I think he said his name was Rob,” Natalie, the office receptionist says over the intercom on my landline phone. I’ve just ended a call with the police department, asking for any updates on the Bertelli investigation, and I’m running late for court. “Do you want to speak to him, or should I take a message?”
“I’ll take it,” I agree since Rob Reynolds is one of the few journalists who doesn’t trash me in every article reporting on my cases. Knowing my father reads every piece of news coming from the city, I could use all the help I can get.
“Hi, Rob. I’ll give you three questions if you can make me sound like a badass prosecutor who refuses to cower from threats while protecting the citizens of New York.”
“Deal,” he says. “First of all, have you increased your personal security measures for the upcoming trials against the Ferraros and rumored threats?”
“No comment.” Telling him I don’t have any personal security would paint a bigger bullseye on my back, inviting trouble, and saying I’ve considered it makes it sound like I’m scared of the mobsters, which I’m not.
“Understood, but I had to take my shot,” Rob replies. “Next question, are the trials still scheduled to begin in February?”
“Yes. One a month until all three trials are decided, now that one of the defendants is dead. Creed Ferraro’s trial is up first, followed by Tristan Ferraro’s in March, and concluding with Andre Ferraro’s trial in April. The defendants’ attorneys have been notified, and Judge Waterford has made it clear that she will not be granting any continuances under any circumstance. Based on my conversations with defense counsel, I don’t expect each trial to take more than a week.”
“Great, thank you for those details. And finally, will you be asking for the maximum sentence if you get a conviction against Creed Ferraro in the first trial?”
“I typically only ask for the maximum if there are extenuating circumstances. Otherwise, with charges that have minimum mandatory sentences such as these, I’ll leave sentencing up to the judge’s discretion.”
“Got it,” he says. “Now, off the record, you really should be careful, Kirsten. I have a source who believes the five families have already discussed putting out some sort of hit on you.”
“I’ve heard the same thing, but I’m not too worried,” I remark, wondering if Serafina Bertelli is his source after she told me the same earlier this week. “I live and work in secure buildings, and I have a license to carry because of my position, which is all public record. If anything happens to me, well, everyone will know who to blame. I just hope whoever takes over my job will not hesitate to pursue additional charges.”
I straighten my white stapler, penholder, and stack of sticky note pads on my desk to calm my racing pulse. It’s beenhappening more and more lately, the rising panic in my chest as I consider how the mob would come after me. I’d never see a sniper attack, and there’d be less chance of the shooter being caught. Then again, if the assholes wanted to really send a message, they’d probably have a group of men jump me in an alley, ensuring I suffer from every single blow.
“Well, I hope you’ll be open to more questions once the trial starts,” Rob says. “I’ll be in the courtroom bright and early every morning to get a good seat during jury selection.”
“Then I’ll see you there,” I respond casually, pushing aside the thoughts of how I might die.
“Stay safe,” Rob tells me before ending the call.
Annoyed at how out of control having this particular threat hanging over my head makes me feel, I slam the phone back onto the cradle harder than necessary in frustration.
If I were a man, I doubt anyone would be asking if I’m scared of the mob’s retaliation. Not that I think the mobsters would treat a man differently. Would the Ferraros really risk a life prison sentence to get out of a couple of gun charges?
