Nikolai: The Complete Collection

2. Justine

2

JUSTINE

T wenty-eight arrest warrants and fourteen DUIs in the past two years alone, plus a long list of felonies that fill a four-page dossier, all achieved before his twenty-ninth birthday, which is only two short weeks away.

I drift my eyes to my mentor, Mr. Fletcher, bulldog defense attorney and general all-around badass. “How is he not serving thirty to life?”

He flashes me a ruthless grin, sending the giddiness in my head to my stomach. “Because he had a man like me working for him, but with his lawyer vanishing, we have a perfect opportunity to secure him on our books. We want this client, Justine, even more than Clay wants to bed the assistant district attorney.”

Stumped for a better reply, I smile. I’ve only been interning at Schluter & Fletcher for the past three months, but I’m already aware of Clay’s hope to get frisky with Sasha Sheridan. His interests are abundantly clear even when they’re clashing in the courtroom.

Before I can issue a response respectful for a first-year law graduate, a female police officer cracks open a secure entrance in the Las Vegas PD arsenal of properties.

She scans our frozen frames while propping the door open with her curvy hip.

I’m not offended when her gaze lingers on Mr. Fletcher longer than me. For a man ten years my senior, he has looks rivaling those featured in People’s sexiest man competition. He’s handsome, with inky-black hair, unique-colored eyes, and a body someone who works eighty-plus hours a week shouldn’t have.

“Mr. Fletcher. Ms. Walsh.”

The unnamed officer’s formal greeting indicates she’s well-informed about the individuals she’s sneaking into the secured premises. Our location is so guarded I didn’t know it existed until Mr. Fletcher’s Bentley pulled into the underground entrance.

Mr. Fletcher showcases another one of his famous traits: his schmoozing voice. “Roselyn, it’s been too long. We should catch up for a drink soon.”

He kisses Roselyn’s cheek, convincing their pasty-white coloring to shift to a vibrant shade of pink.

Hair falls into my eyes when I greet her with a chin dip. After returning my wordless greeting, Roselyn gestures to a dimly lit corridor on our right. “This way.” She shuffles her feet to face the dark hallway. “He’s being processed for a lineup. Sasha is already on-site.”

As I snap our potential client’s textbook-size police file shut, Mr. Fletcher guides me inside with his hand on my lower back. My pulse quickens when we enter the windowless building. It’s sooty and damp, even without a dust bunny in sight, but I’m unsure if that’s the cause for the eerie sentiment thickening the air.

I’ve always been skittish about this part of my internship, but the butterflies in my stomach aren’t the ones I usually face when combing police headquarters for prospective clients. It’s tense and exciting at the same time—like I’m moments away from unearthing greatness or free-falling into disaster.

After a turbulent few years, I hope it’s the former.

When we reach a reinforced door marked “private,” Mr. Fletcher inputs a six-digit code into the electronic security lock before opening the door and gesturing for me to enter.

“It’s showtime.” His tone is as jazzy as his insinuation.

My heart races when I slip into the cramped space. Two men are dressed head to toe in black in the far corner of the room. Their attire is the unofficial color of law enforcement, so that’s not the cause for my clammy response—it’s their inquisitive glances and tantalizing grins.

I understand their curious gawks—it’s not every day a twenty-five-year-old first-year intern presents as a lead attorney on a case—but their grins are a ball game I’m still unfamiliar with.

For the first fifteen years of my life, I was the epitome of a nerd. My nose rarely left the inside of a book. Only when I grew into my lanky legs and developed breasts most men notice long before my aquamarine eyes did my social status change.

My newly acquired assets not only crowned me Ms. Spring Fling two years in a row, but they also secured me an internship at one of the most lucrative law firms in the country.

I’m not saying Mr. Fletcher’s business associate, Mr. Schluter, hired me solely because I fill a bikini top like no other, but the cut-throat cunningness I’ve witnessed from him the past two months has made me hesitant. Certain female assets can lure clientele even someone with Mr. Fletcher’s ninety-six percent win rate can’t secure.

Although I’m disgruntled I work in a chauvinistic industry stuck in the Stone Age, the fire in my belly to achieve goals I made four years ago ensures my feet remain planted on the ground. I moved to Vegas to be trained by the best. I’m doing precisely that under Mr. Fletcher’s wing.

He trains his interns with a hands-on approach. He brainstorms out loud and includes us in every decision he makes. It’s an invigorating learning curve that holds more value than three years in law school.

Legal defense isn’t for the faint of heart. You dodge grenades thrown by clients, all while representing them to the best of your ability. It’s an exhausting and demoralizing position, but one I’m growing to love more than breathing.

When the gleeful glint in the detectives’ eyes shift to disdain, I slide my hand down my fire-engine-red skirt. I must have a stain I haven’t noticed. Otherwise what would be the cause of their sudden change in demeanor?

The reasoning behind their expressions comes to light when Mr. Fletcher stops at my side. Criminals love Mr. Fletcher. Detectives… not so much. More often than not, he has his clients’ convictions thrown out before they enter a courtroom. He’s shrewd, emasculating, and the first man I’d call if I were ever arrested.

“Justine, this is Bill Hammond and Joe Franco.” Mr. Fletcher waves his hand to the gentlemen gawking at me, their glances nowhere near friendly. “Bill and Joe, this is Justine, a soon-to-be junior associate at Schluter & Fletcher.”

My heart beats triple time at his mention of career advancement. When interviewed for my position, I was informed my internship would last a maximum of twenty-four months.

Although I was turned off at the idea of moving across the country for a non-permanent role, nothing could sway my decision to accept the position. Months of research couldn’t alter the facts. Schluter & Fletcher is the best criminal defense firm in the country, so this is where I need to be.

Not long after I accept a handshake from Bill and Joe, a young man with a battered face enters the room on the tail of Assistant District Attorney Sasha Sheridan. The extensive injuries to his face make his age hard to identify, but I’d guess he is in his late twenties, early thirties. His crew-cut hairstyle barely conceals the gang-related tattoos etched on his skull, and his green eyes are lifeless and hollow.

His gang affiliation is evident even without the Roman numerals tattooed on his right cheek. Before they disbanded three years ago, the Petretti crew were well-known in my hometown of Hopeton, Florida. I’ve heard rumors that they aimed to revive the debunked group, but this is the first solid proof I’ve seen since the death of their leader. The complainant’s cheek tattoo looks fresh, like he recently joined their faction.

After issuing Mr. Fletcher a nasty stink-eye that reveals their numerous battles over the past ten years, Sasha directs her client to a glass wall blocked out by a sizable red curtain. The client we want to secure is standing behind that two-way mirror with an additional four or five inmates brought in tonight.

Las Vegas County PD is the most bustling department I’ve seen in my short law career. You’d think weekends would be their busiest nights. They aren’t. Thrill seekers, gamblers, and locals understand that weeknights are ideal for creating a ruckus. If they want their case brought before the judge prior to a weekend stint in lockup, Thursday afternoon is the absolute cutoff time to be arrested.

Our client’s participation in an all-out brawl late Friday afternoon has me curious about his motive. His criminal file reveals he’s a born-and-raised Nevada resident, so he must be aware his brush with the law this afternoon will see him spending the July Fourth weekend in a four-by-four concrete cell with a lidless toilet and twenty-four-seven surveillance.

I’m stumped as to why he’d take the risk. Is he hoping his unlawful ways will excuse him from the weekend festivities? Or is he so confident in his legal team that he has no cause for worry?

Mr. Fletcher’s deep timbre drags my thoughts back to the present. “Justine?”

When I peer at him with a quirked brow, he nudges his head to the glass petition expanding the entire left side of the room, soundlessly requesting I follow him.

Within seconds, our position mimics the one I’ve witnessed numerous times in the past several months. The defensive team stands on the left, while the ADA, her client, and the lead investigators on the case stand to our right.

Usually a judge would have a prime position in the middle of the congregation, but since this is a lineup and not an arraignment, that space remains empty.

I breathe out slowly, easing the nerves fluttering in my stomach. Although I’m conscious the defendants can’t see me, a peculiar sensation overwhelms me. I’ve never understood fearful excitement, but I’m confident that’s what I am experiencing. It’s an enthralling feeling that could grow as addictive as a jury siding with the defense on a seemingly un-winnable case.

I jump out of my skin when Mr. Fletcher leans into my side and mutters, “Number five.” He keeps his voice low, ensuring the complainant doesn’t hear his disclosure of our client’s identification. “Nikolai, a Russian mafia prince.”

As I lick my dry lips, my eyes drift down the line of defendants, only stopping when I reach suspect Number five. My heart rate turns calamitous when my gaze connects with a pair of icy-blue eyes staring straight at me. Nikolai’s stare is so direct I glance over my shoulder, certain he’s staring at someone behind me.

He isn’t.

Other than Mr. Fletcher on my left, our quarter of the room is void of another soul.

After soothing a scratch impinging my throat with a quick swallow, I scan Nikolai’s body, uncertain which god-crafted feature to categorize first. He has the glare of the devil, the sneer of a murderer, and the body of an Adonis.

Hold on, what?

Even if my assessment is accurate, it’s inappropriate to say about a prospective client. Integrity is my most vital asset, so I’m appalled by my judgment and confused as to why I blurted it without consideration. I don’t look at men like that. Well, I do, just not during a lineup. My perving is generally reserved for men not facing attempted murder charges.

Excusing my peculiar behavior as a repercussion of a long week, I return my eyes to Nikolai. No matter how many ways I look at it, the ache of my pulse is warranted.

Nikolai is wearing nothing but ripped jeans and an unforgiving smirk. His bare feet are planted shoulder-width apart, and the sheet of cardboard he’s holding in front of his tattooed chest barely covers the thick line of dark hair flowing from his belly button to the waistband of his designer briefs. His body is divine. Its only letdown is the faint bruises mottling his sun-kissed skin.

Even if I weren’t aware of his extensive criminal history, his persona screams bad boy. His demeanor is so compelling that I’m certain women sense it from a mile away. He’s the reason fathers buy guns and women buy sex toys. He is the ultimate representation of sex, intrigue, and mystery while also displaying he’ll be your worst nightmare.

Although his face shows signs of a fight, his is nowhere near as battered as the man accusing him of assault. His left brow has a gash similar to one a beer bottle would make when struck across a temple, and his right cheek has two puncture wounds approximately the width of a dime.

His hands are bloody and bruised, though I’m confident not all the blood is his. His teeth are straight and white, and his stubble-covered jawline is ruggedly handsome. He has the perfect body for gracing the pages of Men’s Fitness magazine—he merely needs to dull down his mafia sneer.

Even with his criminal activities more comprehensive than Mr. Fletcher’s clients combined, I’m sure he has no trouble attracting the ladies. I’m confident they vie for his attention as intensely as every defense attorney in this county would fight to secure him as their client.

It shames me to admit, but we’re only in this room because Mr. Fletcher’s schmoozing is as fierce as his astuteness. If it weren’t, we’d be camped out in the foyer with the other fifteen-plus defense attorneys we passed on our way to the concealed entrance of this building.

My eyes stray from Nikolai’s unruly spiked hair to the ADA when she questions, “Can you identify the man who assaulted you today?” She peers at the complainant, whose face has grown gaunter since he entered the room.

As if sensing the direction of our proceedings, Nikolai’s steel blue gaze drifts to the right. His extensive criminal history guarantees he’s well-informed on how these proceedings unfold, but I’m still surprised by the accuracy of his stare.

Like when he peered at me, his gaze homes in directly on the complainant. He stares down his accuser, his glare more threatening than the veins bulging in his biceps.

I crank my neck to the side when the battered man answers, “No.”

Sasha balks, shocked by his reply. I can understand her bewilderment. From the information disclosed during our commute, I was sure this case was a slam dunk for the prosecution.

Nikolai was arrested at the scene. His fingerprints are on the weapon used during the assault, and there are more than thirty eyewitnesses. Unless there was a major kerfuffle with the paperwork, the complainant is either mistaken or lying.

Sasha double-checks, certain she misheard her client. “Are you sure?”

The complainant nods. “Yep. I don’t see him.” His nerves are uncontained even with his short reply.

Joe rises from his seat and moseys toward the accused. “You don’t recognize the man who assaulted you?” His voice is as swaggered as his stride. “The guy I dragged off you not even an hour ago isn’t in that lineup?” He points his index finger to the glass partition, behind which a grinning Nikolai is standing, not the least concerned that his freedom is dangling on a fragile thread.

The complainant’s throat works hard to swallow. “Nope. Don’t see him. I swear.”

Mr. Fletcher groans, recognizing our hope of securing Nikolai as a client is slim if he isn’t positively ID’d in a lineup. Without being identified, he’ll be scot-free before the ink on his fingers dries.

I shuffle on my feet so it appears as if I’m facing Nikolai, but I project my voice toward Mr. Fletcher. “Do you speak Italian?”

“What?” he replies, my voice too low for him to hear.

“Do you speak Italian?” I repeat, louder this time.

His brows stitch. “Some. I’m bilingual, just not as extensively as you.”

A grin stretches across my face, pleased he perused my application before accepting me as his intern. Other than stating my multilingual talents on my resume, I keep my language fluency on the down-low, often finding my love of languages more valuable when people are unaware I can decipher what they’re saying.

“Ask the complainant if he’s prepared for the repercussions he’ll suffer when his crew discovers he fears a rival.”

Mr. Fletcher stares at me in confusion. I don’t know if his perplexity stems from my request or how I’m aware of the complainant’s gang affiliation.

I quote the infamous saying he utilizes anytime he’s losing a disagreement. “Trust me.”

After a roll of his eyes that looks more sophisticated than it should, Mr. Fletcher asks, “ Cosa dirà il tuo equipaggio quando scoprirà che temi un rivale ?” Conscious his Italian may not be as fluent as it once was, he speaks slowly.

The accuser’s eyes snap to Mr. Fletcher, their anger doubling from the accusation that he’s a coward. Although Mr. Fletcher didn’t say that, the insinuation warrants his angered response.

The battered man’s words fire off his tongue like venom. “I fear no one.”

I inch back when he spits at Mr. Fletcher’s feet. I inwardly sigh when his vile body product misses my exposed-toe pumps.

Mr. Fletcher’s pricy shoes aren’t as lucky.

When the complainant grins a blood-smeared smirk, thinking he has Mr. Fletcher panicked, Mr. Fletcher straightens his spine and rolls his shoulders.

He has four older brothers. Nothing intimidates him.

“If you have nothing to fear, you’ll be honest.” He steps over the spit not coating his shoes. “You know the man who trampled your face is standing behind that glass. You’re just too scared to admit it.” His tone is drenched with a superiority you’d expect a man of his stature to hold. “If you want to return to your crew as a hero, take down a rival instead of cowardly covering for one.”

Sasha attempts to cite an objection to Mr. Fletcher goading her client, but she’s so stumped by him aiding her case that her mouth remains tight-lipped, leaving only her eyes to express her condemnation.

“What do you have to fear? By the time he’s out on bail, you’ll be with your brothers, talking up how you took down a member of the Popov crew.”

The complainant’s eyes flare with disbelief. “I won’t have to testify?”

Although his words are strong, the quiver in his jaw gives away his true defense. He’s petrified. I can’t blame him. I’ve only been subjected to our client’s aura through bulletproof glass, and my insides haven’t stopped shaking. He gives the impression of a man not to be messed with… unless you plan to eat via a straw for the rest of your life.

The plaintiff glares at Mr. Fletcher without remorse. “If this goes to trial, I won’t testify. I’m not a snitch.”

Sasha attempts to reply to her client, but Mr. Fletcher beats her. “You’ll only testify if this case goes to trial. I guarantee that will not happen. This case is cut and dry. It won’t reach preliminary stage.”

His guarantee may seem fraudulent to an outsider, but I believe every word he speaks. He’d rather lick the shoes of the detectives glaring at him than have Nikolai sit before a jury of his peers. He’d even sacrifice his firstborn child. That’s how influential a client like Nikolai is for a firm like Schluter & Fletcher. He’s a defense attorney’s equivalent of finding the pot of gold under the rainbow. He and his criminal tendencies are an endless money pit.

“All right.” The complainant gingerly nods. “I’ll admit, I see the accused behind the partition.”

Sasha’s shoulders loosen as her eyes drift to the detectives on her right. She smiles at them, revealing her every wish has been granted. I also smile, pleased we coerced the complainant into submission while praying our win will smother the worry brewing in my gut.

Tonight, we had a victory.

My intuition is warning me I can’t make the same guarantee for the rest of the weekend.