Twisted Justice With A Billionaire Don

Chapter 1

Erin

The witness squirms under my stare, sweat beading on his upper lip. Perfect.

"Mr. Donovan, you testified that you were at the Blackbird Pub until closing the night of October 12th, correct?" I keep my voice measured, each word a carefully placed step in a trap.

"That's right." His confidence is paper-thin. I can see right through it.

"And you're certain it was the Blackbird? Not the Crow's Nest or the Raven?" I pace before the witness stand, heels clicking against hardwood.

"The Blackbird. I told you already." Irritation creeps into his voice.

I smile. Not a warm smile. The kind that shows teeth.

"Interesting. Because the Blackbird Pub burned to the ground in August." I slide a newspaper clipping toward him. "Care to revise your statement about where you supposedly were when Victor Greco was murdered?"

The courtroom stirs. Judge Harrington leans forward, eyes narrowed.

Donovan's face drains of color. "I—I meant the Crow's Nest. I get them confused."

"Do you also get confused about whether you're committing perjury to protect Thomas O'Malley?" I press, moving closer. "Or is your memory suddenly clearer now that you're under oath?"

"Objection!" The defense attorney jumps to his feet. "Badgering the witness."

"Sustained." Judge Harrington gives me a warning look. "Rein it in, Counselor."

I nod respectfully to the bench but keep my eyes locked on Donovan. His collar is now damp with sweat. I've cracked him open; it's time to extract what I need.

"Mr. Donovan, cell phone records place you three blocks from the murder scene at 11:42 p.m., not at any pub. Would you like to explain that discrepancy?"

His eyes dart to the gallery, where a broad-shouldered man with a Celtic knot tattoo peeking from his collar sits watching. The silent threat is palpable.

"I, uh, I think I need to invoke my Fifth Amendment rights."

I let the silence hang for a beat. "No further questions, Your Honor."

Walking back to the prosecution table, I feel a flutter of satisfaction. Not a full victory, but I've publicly exposed the hole in O'Malley's alibi witness. The jury won't miss it.

Judge Harrington announces a recess with a sharp rap of the gavel. I gather my files, ignoring the defense's glares.

"Nice theater in there, Callahan." Claire Bennett, my snarky colleague, sidles up beside me in the hallway, her tailored navy suit as impeccable as her Harvard-polished accent. "Though some of us prefer to win cases with solid evidence rather than courtroom dramatics."

I close my briefcase with a snap. "The jury needed to see his credibility crumble in real time. It's called strategy, Bennett."

"It's called showboating." She smooths her already-perfect blonde bob. "DA Winters prefers a more… measured approach. Something to consider if you're hoping to advance." Her smile doesn't reach her eyes.

"I'll keep that in mind." I match her fake smile with one of my own. "Right after I finish securing a conviction that's been eluding this office for two years."

Claire's nostrils flare slightly—the only crack in her polished veneer. "Don't get cocky. O'Malley's people play for keeps."

She clicks away on her designer heels, leaving the unspoken threat hanging in the air. I know what they say about me in the office. Michael Callahan's daughter, riding on her daddy's reputation, too emotional, too risky. As if my Harvard law degree and four years as a prosecutor in New York count for nothing.

"That was quite a show, kid."

I turn to find Detective Sean Gallagher leaning against the wall, looking rumpled as always in his bargain suit. The years haven't been kind to my dad’s former partner—his hair more salt than pepper now, deep lines carved around his eyes—but there's still something of the tough cop who used to bring me ice cream when I was ten.

"Sean. Didn't know you were watching."

"Always keeping an eye out." He pushes off the wall. "Your old man would've loved seeing you take apart O'Malley's guy like that."

The mention of Dad sends the familiar pang through my chest. "Thanks."

"Got a minute?" He nods toward an empty conference room.

Once inside, Sean's expression turns serious. "You're making waves, Erin. Big ones."

"That's the point."

"Not when you're swimming with sharks." He lowers his voice. "Patrick O'Malley doesn't like the attention you're bringing to his operations."

I lift my chin. "Good."

"No, not good." Sean's weathered face hardens. "Your father was my best friend. I promised him—"

"You promised him you'd look out for me. I know." I soften my tone. "And I appreciate it, Sean. But I'm not a kid anymore."

"Boston isn't New York. The lines are blurrier here. The connections go deeper." He runs a hand through his thinning hair. "And the landscape is changing. O'Malley's had a lock on this city for decades, but there's new blood moving in."

"The Castellanos," I say, recalling the thin file on my desk. "Chicago outfit, right?"

Sean nods. "They've been establishing a foothold for months. Word is the younger brother—Nico—is running point on the Boston expansion."

"That's going to make O'Malley nervous."

"It already has. And a nervous O'Malley is dangerous for everyone, especially the ADA, who’s trying to put his soldiers behind bars." Sean's eyes are grave. "Just… watch your back, Erin. And maybe ease off the throttle a bit."

"Not a chance." I shoulder my bag. "This is why I came back, Sean."

His expression tells me he knows arguing is pointless. "Your father was stubborn, too."

The unspoken hangs between us. And look where it got him.

The cemetery is quiet in the late afternoon. Rows of headstones cast long shadows across the manicured grass as I wind my way to the familiar spot beneath the oak tree.

MICHAEL JAMES CALLAHAN

Beloved Father, Dedicated Officer

"Justice Above All"

I place fresh flowers beside the polished granite, clearing away the fallen leaves. Twenty-two months since the ambush that took him. The official report called it a drug deal gone wrong, but Dad never worked narcotics. He'd been building a case—something big he couldn't talk about, even to me.

"I made that witness crack today," I tell the headstone. "Not enough for a direct link to O'Malley, but it's a start."

The wind rustles through the oak leaves. In the distance, a groundskeeper's leaf blower drones.

"Claire Bennett's gunning for my job. Or at least trying to undermine me." I smile ruefully. "You always said office politics would be harder than actual criminals."

I trace the engraved letters of his name with my fingertip. "I miss you, Dad. I'm trying to do this right, but sometimes I feel like I'm stumbling around in the dark."

An elderly couple passes by, placing flowers at a nearby grave. I wait until they're gone before continuing.

"Sean thinks I'm making myself a target. Maybe I am." I straighten, squaring my shoulders. "But I promised you justice. And I keep my promises."

The setting sun gilds the cemetery in amber light as I return to my car. The weight on my chest hasn't lifted, but my resolve has hardened. I didn't come back to Boston to play it safe.

My storage unit smells of dust and forgotten things. It's been three months since I moved back, but I've avoided coming here, knowing what awaits me among these boxes. Now, though, something Sean said keeps echoing in my mind. The lines are blurrier here. The connections go deeper.

I flip the light switch, and fluorescent bulbs flicker to life, illuminating stacks of cardboard boxes labeled in my father's neat block handwriting. KITCHEN. BOOKS. PHOTOS. And several marked simply: WORK.

Dad wasn't supposed to bring work home. But he did—case files from closed investigations, old reports, the paper trail of twenty years on the Boston PD. After his death, I packed everything away, too raw to look through it. Too afraid of what I might find. Or what I might not find.

I drag the boxes marked WORK to the center of the unit and sit cross-legged on the concrete floor, taking a deep breath before slicing through the packing tape.

Inside, manila folders are arranged chronologically, each labeled with case numbers and brief descriptions. I recognize some of them—cases he'd talked about over dinner, closed investigations that had occupied months of his time. Nothing unusual. Nothing that explains why he died in what the official report called "a drug deal gone wrong," when Dad never worked narcotics.

Toward the bottom of the first box, a thinner folder catches my eye. Unlike the others with their neat labels and case numbers, this one is unmarked except for a single word in red marker: DOCKS.

My fingers tremble slightly as I open it.

Inside are surveillance photos—grainy shots of Boston Harbor at various times of day. Shipping containers being loaded and unloaded. Men in suits talking on piers. None of the photos have identifying information, no names or dates, just images that could mean everything or nothing.

Tucked between the photos are handwritten notes on yellow legal pad paper. Dad's familiar, cramped handwriting fills the pages, but instead of organized reports, these are fragments. Questions without answers:

Container routing through Pier 7, who controls access?Three shipments, same origin, different manifests. Why?Payment structure doesn't match standard protocols."C" says timing is critical. Can't move too fast.

"C"? Who was "C"?

More pages, more questions:

Need to verify before taking higher. Can't risk wrong channels."S" asking questions about my schedule. Coincidence?Harbor Trust connection - need more proof.

"S" could be Sean, his partner. But asking questions about Dad's schedule? That sends a chill down my spine.

A smaller envelope falls from between the pages. Inside is a photograph I've never seen before—Dad standing with another man outside what looks like a downtown building. Both are in plainclothes, shaking hands. The other man's face is partially shadowed, hard to make out clearly.

I turn the photo over. In Dad's handwriting: Castellano contact, March 2022.

My breath catches. Castellano?

The Chicago family that's been making moves into Boston. The organized crime syndicate that's been on every law enforcement radar for the past year.

My father had a contact in the Castellano organization? Five months before he died?

I study the photo more carefully, trying to make out the other man's features, but the angle and shadow make it impossible to see clearly. Was this person feeding Dad information? Working with him? Against him?

The photograph raises more questions than it answers, but one thing is clear. My father's final investigation involved the Castellanos somehow. And I never knew.

At the very bottom of the box, I find something that makes my breath catch—Dad's personal journal. The small leather notebook he carried everywhere, the one Mom gave him when he made detective. I'd assumed it was lost, maybe destroyed in whatever happened that night.

I hesitate before opening it, feeling like an intruder into his private thoughts. These weren't case notes meant for official review—these were his personal reflections, doubts, fears.

I flip to the last entries, my hands shaking.

Three weeks before he died:

The picture is bigger than I thought. Not just business as usual—something organized, systematic. C's information checks out, but I need more before I can take this anywhere. The question is: who do I trust with it?

One week before:

Met with "C" again today. If he's right about the scope of this, I can't use normal channels. Too many potential leaks. Need to document everything properly, build the case somewhere safe. "S" is getting curious about my meetings. Not sure if it's concern or something else.

Two days before his death:

Tomorrow's meeting is critical. "C" says he has proof—the kind that can't be ignored or buried. If I'm right about what he's told me, this changes everything I thought I knew about how this city works. Told "E" I'm working a routine case. God, I hate lying to her, but better she doesn't know until I'm certain. Until it's safe.

The final entry ends there. Whatever meeting he had planned, whatever proof he was supposed to receive, died with him.

I sit in the dusty silence of the storage unit, surrounded by fragments of my father's final investigation. Cryptic notes. Unanswered questions. A mysterious contact identified only as "C." Suspicions about his own partner.

But no solid answers. No smoking gun. No clear picture of what he was investigating or who killed him for it.

Just hints. Shadows. The outline of something bigger that he died before he could expose.

I carefully repack the documents, but I take the journal, the unmarked photograph, and the DOCKS folder. Whatever Dad was investigating, whatever truth he died for, the trail starts here.

With questions I don't yet know how to answer.

My apartment feels empty when I return. Modern furniture, minimal décor—I haven't had time to make it feel like home in the three months I’ve been back. Boxes still line one wall of the living room, filled with mementos I’m not ready to unpack.

I kick off my heels, pour a generous glass of cabernet, and spread my active case files across my coffee table. The O'Malley dossier is thick—decades of suspected crimes, from union racketeering to drug trafficking to murder. Most investigations stalled due to witness intimidation or the mysterious disappearance of evidence.

I flip through witness statements, looking for patterns, connections—anything that might explain why my father had been investigating the docks the night he was killed. The wine goes down too easily as the hours tick by, and the pieces refuse to align.

My phone buzzes with a text from Sean: Still have that old .38 I gave you?

I type back: In my bedside drawer. Why?

Just checking. Sleep with it close.

The warning sends a chill through me despite the wine's warmth. I close the files, suddenly aware of how exposed my apartment feels with its wall of windows overlooking the harbor. Drawing the blinds, I check the locks twice before heading to the shower.

Under the hot spray, I try to wash away the day's tension. The job, Claire's thinly veiled threats, Sean's warnings, the looming shadow of O'Malley—it all swirls together, suffocating. I came back to Boston for justice, but some nights the loneliness of this crusade hits harder than others.

Toweling off, I catch my reflection in the steamy mirror. My father's green eyes stare back at me, determined despite the shadows beneath them. I look like him when he was deep in a case—focused to the point of obsession.

"You need a break, Callahan," I tell my reflection.

Decision made, I blow-dry my hair into loose waves and apply makeup with more care than usual. The black dress I pull from the closet hasn't seen use since New York—form-fitting but classy, showing just enough leg and cleavage to remind me I'm not just an ADA with a vendetta.

One night. One drink in a bar where nobody knows me. A few hours to be just a woman, not Michael Callahan's daughter or the mob's newest target.

The bar I choose is in Back Bay, far from the courthouse crowd and the neighborhoods O'Malley controls. Hudson's is upscale enough to discourage the worst elements but relaxed enough that I don't feel overdressed. Piano music drifts through the dimly lit space as I slide onto a barstool.

"Manhattan, please. Rye, if you have it."

The bartender nods approvingly at my order. As he mixes the drink, I scan the room reflexively—a habit from years of sizing up witnesses and suspects. Business types unwinding after work. A couple on what looks like a promising third date. A group of women celebrating something with colorful cocktails.

My drink arrives, perfectly balanced between sweet and bitter. I sip slowly, letting the tension in my shoulders ease incrementally. No one here knows who I am. No case files demanding my attention. No Claire Bennett undermining me. No ghosts of my father asking if I'm doing enough.

Just me, this drink, and the gentle anonymity of a Thursday night.

That's when I feel it—the weight of someone's gaze. I look up, eyes skimming across the bar until they catch on him.

He sits alone at a corner table, partially shadowed but impossible to miss. Dark hair, impeccable suit that speaks of custom tailoring and old money. Strong jaw, straight nose. But it's his eyes that hold me—intelligent, assessing, with an intensity that suggests he sees more than most.

Our gazes lock for a beat too long to be accidental. He doesn't smile. Doesn't nod. Just watches me with an interest that sends a surprising warmth through my veins.

I break the contact first, returning to my drink with forced casualness. But I can still feel those eyes on me, a physical presence against my skin.

When I glance up again, he's standing. Moving toward me with deliberate, unhurried steps. The crowd seems to part instinctively for him, like prey animals recognizing a predator in their midst.

I should leave. The responsible ADA, the dedicated daughter seeking justice—she would finish her drink and walk out now.

But tonight, I'm neither of those women. Tonight, I'm just Erin—lonely, restless, drawn to the mystery in those penetrating eyes.

He stops beside me, close enough that I catch the subtle scent of his cologne—something expensive, with notes of cedar and amber. Up close, he's even more striking—tall and lean, with an air of contained power that makes the fine hairs on my arms stand up.

"I'd like to buy your next drink," he says, his voice a smooth baritone with the barest hint of an accent I can't place. "If you'll allow it."

I should say no. Should make an excuse and leave. Instead, I find myself studying him, curiosity winning over caution.

"Why would I allow that?" I ask, surprising myself with the playful challenge in my tone.

The corner of his mouth lifts slightly—not quite a smile, but an acknowledgment of the game.

"Because you're drinking alone, and so am I." He gestures to the bartender without taking his eyes off me. "And because you looked across the room like someone searching for something they've lost."

The observation is too perceptive, cutting closer to the truth than I'm comfortable with. I take another sip of my Manhattan, buying time.

"That's presumptuous."

"Perhaps." He doesn't deny it. "Or perhaps it's simply recognition. I know that look because I've worn it myself."

Something in his words resonates—the quiet admission of loneliness or loss, carefully wrapped in composure. Despite my better judgment, I find myself intrigued by the contradiction he presents—the confident exterior and the glimpse of something more complex beneath.

The responsible voice in my head screams warnings. But tonight isn't about being responsible. Tonight is about escaping, just for a few hours, from the weight of my mission and my grief.

One drink with a handsome stranger. A brief reprieve from being Erin Callahan, crusader. What harm could it do?

"One drink," I agree, raising my nearly empty glass. "And then we go back to being strangers."

His eyes—hazel, I realize now, with flecks of gold near the pupils—hold mine with an intensity that makes my pulse quicken.

"I'm Nico," he offers, taking the seat beside me.

"Erin." The name slips out before I can consider using a pseudonym.

His gaze never wavers as the bartender sets fresh drinks before us. "To chance encounters, Erin."

I clink my glass against his, and for the first time in months, I feel something other than grief and determination. I feel alive.