A Piece Of Us

Under my fingers, the leather-bound legal book banged shut. One student in the back row flinched as the sound reverberated around Northwestern's fake courtroom.

"Premeditation isn't about emotion, Your Honor." I walked over to the jury box, my shoes clicking across the hardwood. "It has to do with patterns. The email address "gardeningsupplies123@gmail.com" was created three weeks before to Sarah Patterson's passing. The same account placed an order for industrial-grade rat poison three days later. A man who fit the defendant's description picked up the package from a post office six towns away two days later.

My shadow stretched across the old carpet as the afternoon sun poured through the big windows. Professor Chen's addiction to her French roast permeated every mock trial session, and the air smelled like coffee and furniture polish.

"The defense would have you believe Mrs. Patterson was depressed." The paper was nice and silky as I ran my finger over the evidence folder. However, her calendar presents a different picture. Mondays are for yoga. Wednesdays are book club. Every Thursday, there are classes in Italian cooking.

I noticed my reflection in the window: my father's graduation gift of pearl earrings, a charcoal pencil skirt, and a clean white top. The ideal outfit for a potential prosecutor. As my mother used to do, I tucked back the dark hair that had slipped out of my bun.

"Mrs. Patterson paid $1,200 for advanced cookery courses two days prior to her passing. She purchased tickets for a flight to Venice. I lowered my voice. "Your Honor, she was refining her recipe for tiramisu. That is not the conduct of-"

My remarks were slashed like a scalpel through silk by a deep laugh.

He occupied the doorway. God recognized that his physical presence was stunning enough, but not just that. Approximately six feet tall, with shoulders wide enough to make the suit jacket appear to be painted on, wearing a flawlessly fitted Armani. However, it went beyond that. As if gravity itself took notice when he stepped into a room, the air seemed to bend around him.

"An interesting theory." Like distant thunder, his words echoed around the classroom. "Tell me, do you always assume you can read someone's soul through their daily planner?"

My chest constricted. Sharp enough to cut, steel grey eyes met mine. His jaw was darkened by a five o'clock shadow, the kind of purposeful stubble that must have cost more to keep up than my rent each month.

I tried to say, "This is a closed session," but my voice sounded breathier than I had intended.

Despite wearing Italian leather shoes that might cover my tuition, he entered the room like a predator, taking deliberate, quiet steps. "Is it? I believed it was a lesson on human nature." His mouth curled into a smile, but those grey eyes remained unaffected. "And you're teaching it so... confidently."

Isabella's chair scuffed the floor behind me. Her protective instincts were virtually kicking in. Something informed me that my best friend's purse contained a taser and three black belts, but neither would be useful against this man.

"Your point being?" Appreciative of my four-inch heels, I squared my shoulders.

"My point?" He paused at the prosecution table and rubbed the glossy surface with one finger. There are no rings. manicured nails. A caution light flashed on a platinum watch. Elena Romano, I'm trying to say that you can be surprised by people. On Thursday, they can attend cookery classes, and on Friday, they can meet with loan sharks. While drowning in debt from gambling, plan a trip to Venice. Smile at their kid over Sunday supper while knowing they've traded her future to save their own skin."

A shiver went down my back. There was enough silence in the room to hear an old radiator in the corner hiss.

"How do you-"

"Know your name?" Once more, that smile with flawless teeth and no warmth. "I have a lot of knowledge. For example, the vehicle accident that your mother had twelve years ago wasn't as unintentional as the police report said. Or how there are precisely twenty-seven days remaining in the operational capital of your father's restaurant. Or how that letter of acceptance to the internship program at the DA's office can inexplicably disappear."

The coffee mug belonging to Professor Chen broke on the ground. "I'm calling security."

"No." Like a razor, the word sliced through the atmosphere. "You're not. Because Elena and I have a dinner reservation at Gibson's in"-he checked his watch with elegant precision-"twenty-eight minutes. She will be dressed more appropriately for a five-star restaurant when she meets me there. Elena, your legs are nicely highlighted by that stunning skirt, but we're going somewhere that requires... elevation."

My ears vibrated with the pounding of my heart. In an instant, the air was chocking and the fluorescent lights appeared too bright for my eyes. In the nooks and crannies of my father's eatery, there were already men like him. They left big tips, chatted gently, and arrived late. They were referred to as "business associates" in whispers by the waiters. They were never noticed by the police officers that dined there.

"I don't have dinner with-"

"Strangers?" A chuckle akin to gravel and aged bourbon. "But, Elena, we're practically family. Or we shall be." With a motion as fluid as a magician's trick, he took a business card out of his breast pocket. The podium was gently tickled by the thick cream cardstock. Russo, Marcus. You have twenty-seven minutes to determine whether the cost of risotto is worth your father's life.

His pricey suit flowed like water as he turned. There was still a hint of his woodsy, sophisticated cologne, maybe more expensive than my textbooks. He left a trail of footsteps behind. Only the faint scent of sandalwood and solitude remained when his footsteps vanished down the corridor.

My fingers shook as I picked up the card. Under my fingertips, the embossed characters appeared as braille: "Marcus Russo, Chief Executive Officer, Russo International Holdings." Below that was a Gold Coast address I had only seen in the "Most Expensive Real Estate" columns of Chicago Magazine.

"Elena." Isabella took hold of my arm. "The FBI of my uncle. Just one call-"

A hard chuckle slipped out of my throat. "FBI? Have you noticed that watch? The FBI is owned by men like him.

The sound of a hammer striking the floor accompanied each tick of the wall-mounted clock. I looked at my picture in the window again. My mother's dark hair color. The same obstinate chin. Twelve years ago, when she realized the truck bearing down on her automobile was not going to stop, she must have had the same expression.

I have twenty-six minutes to change.

Twenty-six minutes to save my father.

I believed in justice for twenty-six minutes until I saw the true meaning of power.

In my hand, the business card blazed like a lighted flame.