And on a more local level, nobody really wanted to mess with Aleksei Vasiliev, the Russian mafia vor whose underlings Peluso had eliminated so ruthlessly. Vasiliev owned a string of clubs and bars in the old-school Russian enclaves across Brooklyn and Queens, but it was fairly common knowledge that (a) they were a cover for drugs and sex trafficking and (b) he was just one cog in a larger operation run by a criminal network that both local authorities and Interpol had been watching for years. Plus (c) his potential supernatural affiliation—there was no confirmation in the legal community, but rumors had him as everything from werewolf to sorcerer. Oh, and there were also (d) his ties to several Aryan militia groups. The overlap between white supremacy and organized crime was such that the Venn diagram was practically one circle.
Aleksei Vasiliev was a nightmare. It was just Neha’s luck that Joe Peluso had messed with him—and then some—by taking out a bunch of his pals. Peluso had basically kicked over six hornets’ nests. And, looking at him now, it certainly seemed like he did not give a single fuck about it. He was slouched, almost bored. Staring at the table or the wall more than paying attention to his lawyers. There was a slight tension to his shoulders, to the lines of his mouth, but that could be attributed to any number of things. A problem with authority. General surliness. Constipation.
Dustin’s smooth baritone betrayed not one bit of annoyance that their new client wasn’t playing ball. “Would you say you were under duress when you left Queens on the night of September 14?”
“‘Under duress?’ What kind of bullshit phrasing is that?” Peluso rolled his eyes. “No one forced me anywhere. Lone-ass gunman, remember?”
Nate offered his most charming smile in response. “Was it a full moon?” He knew the answer to that already. The date of the hit was well documented. But he wasn’t fishing for calendar confirmation. “Were you perhaps driven by…impulses?”
This, too, met with disdain. And zero acknowledgment of what Nate was referring to. “Do I look like the Weather Channel?” Peluso sneered. “The fuck do I know if it was a full moon?”
Neha struggled not to laugh, to not give him the satisfaction of a reaction, and applied herself to taking notes while Nate and Dustin went over the prelims again. But mostly she just watched their client. Studied him. Recorded what questions made the veins on his neck stand out. When he clenched his fists. He didn’t like talking about his past. Bristled when asked about motive. On the surface, he seemed like the classic alpha male with authority issues. Push the wrong button and he would blow.
But then you added in the shifter factor…and she was stumped. From all reports, Peluso hadn’t changed forms, or attempted to change, since his outburst in court. The medical staff at Brooklyn Detention had done as much blood work as their limited capability allowed, monitored him for weeks afterward, and only logged a few minor signs of supernatural ability. Bursts of increased aggression at certain times of the month—something she could actually relate to. But he hadn’t gone full wolf or bear or whatever he was. He’d done nothing that required putting him in solitary. Aside from being a surly asshole who clearly got in a few dustups here and there, he was a model prisoner. Not so much the model client.
It was the world’s most personal Law & Order rerun—movie-star handsome Nate and suave and serene Dustin trying to get a bead on the chillingly charismatic killer they’d agreed to defend. The contrast was almost comical. Their suits probably cost more money than Joe Peluso would ever see. Hell, Neha knew without a doubt that their suits cost more than her entire wardrobe. They were almost incongruous in the spare, utilitarian, private visitors’ room. Two shining beacons of Armani hotness surrounded by cinder block and reinforced steel—an ad for a fashion house versus the Brooklyn House of Detention.
Halfway through the meeting, she realized Peluso was looking right at her. Leaning back in the chair bolted to the floor, chained fists on the table before him like he’d been ordered to pray. There was something like a smile on his face. A glitter in the black ice-chips of his pupils. Oh. Of course. She knew what was coming. She’d worked as a grunt in the DA’s office for two years before DGS fished her out of the shallow end. This was when the client said something like “Who’s the bitch?” or “She a perk?” or “Can I see your tits?” The veritable sexual harassment buffet.
She braced for it. It never came. Peluso just flicked his gaze back to Nate. “Why’s she here?” he demanded. “You trying to soften me up or something? It ain’t gonna work. I know what you think I am, but you can’t bribe me into good behavior like a dog.”
He was angry. And she wasn’t sure what to unpack first—that he thought she was a bribe, or that he’d compared himself to a dog. There was definitely a chunk of the public who thought he was a rabid monster off the chain, even without knowing his true nature. There were certainly people at the firm who thought she was just a diversity hire with great legs and a pretty face—a showpiece. But he was wrong. Nate hadn’t brought her here to soften him. Just to get to him. And the fact that he’d noticed her meant she was in.
She leaned forward, folding her hands on the metal table in a parody of his. “I’m here to learn, Joe,” she told him. “Nothing more, nothing less.” The skin around his left eye was black and blue. His right cheek looked like someone had taken a cheese grater to it a week ago. But it was his gaze she focused on, his intensity that held her fixed.
Nate’s hand settled on her knee. A warning squeeze, not a stolen grope. He was in no way interested in any of her body parts besides her brain—not just because he was gay, but because he didn’t subscribe to the toxic male posturing that seemed to permeate most law firms. He’d likely brought her on board because she’d profiled his boyfriend a few months back over Friday night drinks. His now ex-boyfriend.
“Tread carefully,” he was saying with the squeeze. “Tread carefully but work it.” She was thirty-five. Older than a lot of her fellow junior associates. She didn’t need the warning. She knew how to be careful.
“Bullshit,” Peluso pronounced, that almost-smile returning to his face. Bizarrely, she kind of wanted to see the real thing. “It’s never ‘nothing less.’ You want something from me. And good luck with that, ’cause I got nothing to give.”
He was guilty, but he didn’t seem to have any guilt. Not about what he’d done. That much was clear. And he wouldn’t stand for more bullshit. So, she told him the truth as she knew it. “Okay. Here’s the bottom line, Joe. They’re here to defend you. I’m here to break you down. Get inside your head. Find out what makes you tick.”
It amused him. He tilted his head, sizing her up with his good eye. “I’d like to see you try.”
The way he said it—a cocky, casual threat—should have sent a chill down her spine. It didn’t. It just got her back up. “That’s the beauty of it, Joe,” she told him. “You won’t see it. You’ll be halfway there, looking around and wondering why you told me every secret you’ve never told another soul.”