Their Fatal Obsession

Serena

"I'm going to shove my cock deep inside your sweet, little pussy, Miss Attorney. Then I'm going to flip you over and fuck you in the ass. And you know what?" the monster asked as he grinned, his dark eyes flashing rays of nothing but pure evil. "Then you're going to beg me to do it again. And bitch, I take what I want. You will be mine."

Shuddering, I would never forget the promise made by the horrible freak of nature, the murderer I was prosecuting. I couldn't help but look in his direction for the tenth time that day. This time, his grin told me everything.

He would make good on his promise.

Staring into the evil eyes of a monster isn't all it's cracked to be. Do I have a certain level of control? Absolutely, but I'm also no fool. The reputed mafia lord could have my life eliminated with a single phone call—even while his ass rotted in jail.

Several of my colleagues had suggested that I fed off various criminal activities, hungering for a personal taste of the dark side. Maybe that was true, but this man and his penchant for murder was entirely different. I was trying to forge my way out of a black shadow. Admitting that had been difficult for me. Pushing every boundary was my usual manner. Now, I had to admit, I feared I was in over my head with no safety net.

"Ms. Aiden. Are you ready with your closing statement?" Judge Allistair asked, his stern face reminding me that it was almost five o'clock, close to his standing hour for cocktails.

"Yes, Your Honor," I said as I rose from my chair, giving the monster's attorney the sweetest smile I could manage. I had no idea how Michael Shapiro could stand defending a creep like Santana Dioletti, but it was obvious by his three-thousand-dollar suit and diamond studded Rolex that the man was paid very well.

Hush money.

Blood money.

"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury." I allowed a perfectly timed pause, looking into every one of their eyes, before turning my gaze toward Santana.

Santana tipped his head, narrowing his ink jet black eyes as he swept his gaze from my face to my breasts, his hunger evident by the way his chest rose and fell.

I was able to keep my smile, turning my attention back to the jury. I refused to allow the man to get to me. "As I believe you'll agree from the vast amount of unrefuted evidence that Santana Dioletti, also known as the Slicer for his preferred method of killing, should be found guilty on all counts of murder in the first degree."

I could tell Michael was chomping at the bit to object. Too bad, sucker.

I moved closer to the jury, taking my time before issuing my final statement, holding up two of the most horrific photographs of the murder scenes. "Three. Innocent. Lives. Snuffed out. Murdered in cold blood. Stolen from their families. That's all you need to know. Find. Him. Guilty." I heard the single moan coming from one of the jury members just seconds before my heels clipped against the smooth, tile floor as I walked back to the table.

Sometimes saying less meant so much more.

There was no doubt what the jury was thinking.

Evil.

Monster.

Killer.

I was paid very well, my win rate at ninety-seven percent. This asshole was just another case, or at least he should be. I hated the fact he continued to terrify me. Maybe I should ask for a raise.

Hazard pay.

"Mr. Shapiro, please issue your final comments," the judge stated.

After sitting through the solid twenty minutes of Mr. Shapiro's repetitive bullshit, the judge finally cleared his throat. There was no time for a rebuttal, but in truth, I didn't need one.

When the drama king was finished, taking his time and walking back to his seat next to Santana, I couldn't help but lock eyes with the notorious Kingpin. He'd terrorized the entire southeast during the last ten years, his reign of terror splashed across the evening news on a regular basis. Even with a venue change to Baton Rouge, the mafia leader locked down in solitary confinement, he'd managed to continue running his New Orleans kingdom with an iron fist.

The incidents of violence and bloodshed in the streets were rampant, and witnesses disappeared. There were reports he was expanding his territory, pissing off mafia families and other underground leaders. And the rumor mill? Fascinating but unsubstantiated. The Trust. The notion of a group of influential men controlling entire aspects of several countries left a horrible taste in my mouth. Still, if Santana had plans on cornering the Opioid and heroin markets, bringing more drugs into the United States, I would fight to the bitter end to convict his sorry ass.

The monster held the same expression as he gazed at me, one of knowing.

One of seducing.

Mine...

I swallowed, my mind shifting to the threats I'd received, including the single one in written form. While anonymous and devoid of fingerprints or other pointed evidence, I knew with absolute certainty who'd sent it.

Santana would find a way one day to take what he believed belonged to him.