The Vendetta Duet: Exclusive Omnibus SIGNED Edition

In just nine minutes, Dominic’s blood would paint my skin and mark me for death.

Not that I sensed the cataclysmic chain of events that would soon unfold. Standing here right now, all I knew was that sweat laced my palms, just like it always did before hearing the jury’s verdict. 

This anxiousness was honestly a good thing, though, because it reminded me how much my clients meant to me—the underprivileged people who didn’t have the means to defend themselves against a powerful and imperfect system. I’d become a public defender to make sure they didn’t get railroaded like my father did, who’d been wrongfully convicted for a murder he did not commit.

The day they took him from us, a piece of me was stolen, carved out of my heart with a rusty dagger. A wound that had spread toxins through my blood and never scabbed over. 

But at least my dad was still alive. The poor victim my father was accused of killing would never be reunited with loved ones, and I never took for granted that I had a chance to get my father back.

My ultimate goal in life might sometimes seem insurmountable, but so help me, I was going to prove my father was innocent and get him out of prison. It was why I fought against the odds of our financially challenged circumstances to put myself through college and law school to become a criminal defense attorney in Chicago. 

Did I meet my share of clients that might be guilty? Of course. And it bothered me, working the cases where people had intentionally broken the law, but defending them didn’t mean helping them evade consequences; it meant ensuring their rights were protected and their punishments were in line with their crimes. Plus, I was serving a greater good, upholding the justice system’s vital balance, and more frequently than people would assume, I worked cases where I firmly believed my client was innocent.

Like this one. 

Dominic was not guilty of this homicide charge. There was no physical evidence tying him to the shooting of the victim, and Dominic’s ex-girlfriend—who claimed he did it—was an unreliable ex with a vendetta against him for breaking up with her. As for the victim owing Dominic money—the alleged motive—the victim owed many people money. 

Besides, I knew Dominic. After my dad was arrested when I was in elementary school, Dominic stood up for me when other kids picked on me for our family’s tragedy—at his own social expense. That takes some serious moral character, if you ask me, and there was no way the boy who used to rescue caterpillars from the sidewalk before they’d be stepped on could have taken a life. 

He’d moved away a few years later, and we’d lost touch, but he’d always held a special place in my heart. 

So, when Dominic was indicted, I jumped at the chance to defend him. Professionally, I was confident in the case we’d built. Personally, a gnawing fear strangled my chest—what if it wasn’t enough?

I watched the eight men and four women of this jury walk to their seats, scanning their faces, searching for any clue which way this was about to go.

Judge Alcon shifted his gaze to the twelve jurors. “Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, have you reached a verdict?” 

Papers rustled, wooden seats creaked, and a bead of sweat slid down my back in the oppressive air. The columns that flanked the judge’s mahogany bench stood as strong as some of the verdicts handed down to people—the future of many lives changed forever with two powerful decisions: guilty or not guilty. 

“We have, Your Honor,” the foreman said. 

“Would the defendant please rise?” Judge Alcon looked over his wired glasses at our table.

Dominic and I both rose to our feet. I squared my shoulders, memories of sleepless nights and tireless work steadying me, yet I still couldn’t stop the tension from trying to squeeze my temples to death.

“We, the jury, in the above-entitled action, find the defendant, Dominic Hopkins…”

Hearing those words brought me back to when I was a little girl, my Mary Janes swinging inches from the courtroom floor, anxious for them to finally let my daddy come home and help me finish the tree house we’d started building together—having no idea that instead, we were about to enter a new hell. 

“Not guilty.”

I released a breath so deep, that it turned into a shuddering sigh, a heavy weight having lifted from my chest, allowing me to breathe fully and freely. 

Dominic’s chest sank six inches, too, and he closed his eyes as if allowing the significance of this moment to fully sweep into his heart before eventually looking at me.

“I don’t know how I’ll ever repay you,” Dominic whispered, every word dripping with gratitude.

“Your freedom is the only reward I need.” 

How wonderful that the grim chapter in his life had finally ended, and ahead lay a blank canvas, ripe with opportunities and hope. As his public defender, what a fantastic victory for me, too. Not many had managed to score a win against the prosecutor, ADA Hunter Lockwood, whose record was nearly as unblemished as an untouched snowfield. 

But beneath my joy, an uncomfortable ache stirred within me like an insidious fog at sunrise.

If only Dad had this same outcome. 

A good person wouldn’t have such a selfish emotion in someone else’s victory, but I guess it was only human to have envy creep into such a pivotal moment. During the nineteen years my father had already served, he’d lost monumental parts of his life he could never get back. The joy of raising his only daughter, the intoxicating taste of freedom, and tragically, the ember of hope that life would ever get better.

Hope that he’d ever reclaim a life where he could experience the blades of grass beneath his toes. Or smell the enchanting fragrance of wildflowers on a countryside walk, hear the symphony of crickets serenading the night—a chorus that once accompanied him holding hands with his daughter under a starlit sky.

Now, the vibrant memories of being truly alive had faded, much like whispers lost to a dying breeze, their essence dissipating as time stretched on, until all that remained were haunting reminders of what had been lost. 

All because a different courtroom, ruled by the blind eyes of justice, had gotten it catastrophically wrong.

“Thank you.” Dominic wrapped his arms around me—his neck slightly damp from perspiration—just as he’d done right after my father went to prison. 

The warmth of his embrace transported me back, the weight of that first hug after my father’s imprisonment heavy in my chest.

“I’m so sad.” Tears stung my eyes, and a choked sob slipped out.

I traced the cold, untouched sheets on my bed where Dad usually sat, reading tales of heroes and far-off lands, his voice lulling me to dreams.

Dominic pulled me into a tight embrace, letting my tears soak into his shirt, which carried the comforting smell of butter cookies—a scent that reminded me of simpler times. 

Now, nothing would ever be simple again. I wanted to throw things and scream at how unfair this was, but this heartbreak was so excruciating, all my energy had been sucked from me. 

Softly, with a trembling voice, I admitted, “I wish I could close my eyes and never wake up.”

“I’m so happy for you.” I forced a smile through the searing pain in my ribs. 

After the judge dismissed the jury and finished the court’s proceeding, Dominic’s cousin, Franco, walked up and squeezed Dominic’s shoulder. 

Which was odd. I’d have expected a bigger reaction than that. 

Hunter Lockwood, on the other hand, pinched the bridge of his nose in apparent disbelief that he’d suffered a rare loss. 

The guy had a seriously intimidating win rate. I knew that if I had any hope of beating him, I needed to do some recon, so for his last two trials, I’d sat in the back of the courtroom, taking notes of which objections he raised, and which ones he didn’t. The types of questions he asked witnesses and the types he didn’t. The goal was to study his moves and create kick-ass countermoves, like a stealth ninja he’d never see coming.

My hormones didn’t seem to get the memo that I was there for a purely professional reason, though. They started to fixate on non-recon things. Like the sound of his voice—which was seductively deep and seemed to echo off the walls before sliding over my skin like a caress. And how the guy was Greek god–level gorgeous. His black hair was always perfectly cut like a model, and whenever he’d take his suit jacket off, I had to pry my stupid eyes from the muscles pressing against his shirt, or else I risked becoming hypnotized into a sexual haze. 

And then there was his distractingly gorgeous face. Dark facial stubble framed his perfectly sculpted jaw and pouty lips, and his cerulean eyes were so captivating that they could make you forget the next point in your argument.

But whatever. 

I assured myself I was not attracted to Hunter Lockwood. Refused to be. I mean, the guy was trying to put Dominic in prison, for crying out loud. I could control…whatever this was. Attraction, I think. An F5 version of it, but still. I could do this.

All I had to do was avoid him.

When this trial started, he made it easy. Aside from the judge, jury, and occasional witness on the stand, Hunter Lockwood never looked at anyone. People speculated it was a tactic he used to maintain a competitive advantage—to dehumanize the defendant—but whatever his reasons, he’d walk into court each day staring at his phone, and once seated, he’d look down at his papers, making notes in perfect penmanship.

Never looking at anyone else. Certainly not me. 

Until now.

Hunter’s eyes shot through the distance between us like an arrow flying through the air, landing on its target: my face. 

His stare definitely activated some kind of launch sequence in my lower belly. 

Traitorous hormones.

I’d expected him to look hostile, angry, even, since he’d lost, but as his gaze swept over me, his eyebrows relaxed into what appeared to be curiosity.

“Luna Payne,” Elizabeth Wood said. This terribly inconvenient heat in me wanted to plead with her to come back another time, but I kept it together. It wasn’t easy to drag my attention away from Hunter to smile at her, though. Not easy at all. “Tell me you’ve reconsidered my boss’s offer.” 

Elizabeth had made a name for herself in Chicago over the past decade at the private firm she worked for. 

“You’re too good to be a public defender.” She raised her sharply drawn eyebrows. “Come work with me. We need you.”

“These people need me.”

She frowned. “My boss said she’ll increase her last offer by fifty percent. That’s three times what you make now. Plus better benefits.”

The figures swirled tantalizingly in my mind, almost making me reconsider. After all, retrying Dad’s case was going to be expensive. 

But that was the whole problem with public defenders. The really good ones would get snatched up by pricey law firms, leaving only the inexperienced and inferior ones behind. The vulnerable people who relied on public defenders needed excellent attorneys by their side, or they could face the same nightmare my father had gone through.

Plus, Elizabeth’s firm was also known for working their lawyers to the bone, and that bloated salary wouldn’t help my father’s case if I had zero time to work on it.

“I’m flattered you’re interested in me.” I offered a gracious nod. “But I’m happy where I’m at.”

Hunter Lockwood rose to his feet, packing up his papers. 

Elizabeth’s eyes darted in the same direction as mine, catching where my attention had drifted. 

“You know he made Chicago’s most desirable bachelor again this year,” she announced. 

Of course he did.

“Those blogs should report on more important stories,” I said. Like innocent people wasting away in overcrowded prisons for crimes they didn’t commit. “I don’t get why he’s spending his days as a lawyer, anyway.” Thanks to his father’s estate, Hunter was a billionaire before he even went to law school. “He wears a $9,000 Brioni suit every day and arrives at the courthouse in his charcoal-gray Aston Martin DBS. I googled it. Know how much it’s worth? Base price: $330,000.”

“Googling him, huh?” Elizabeth’s eyes sparked with a mischievous glint, making my neck catch fire.

“The guy just tried to put my friend behind bars,” I reminded her.

“You and I both know he was just doing his job,” she countered. “Besides, with a jawline and bank account like that, he could collect toenail clippings and put them into alphabetized jars for all I care.”

I bit back a smile.

Did she have to look that delighted when Hunter started moving? 

“Speak of the devil.” Elizabeth grinned a little too wide, thank you very much, and walked toward the exit, adding, “Congratulations on your win today, Luna.”

And then, God help me, Hunter headed toward me. He kept his eyes locked on mine, buttoning his jacket slowly. 

I kept my chin up, hoping to God that my voice box would freaking work if I needed it, because right now, it was suffering from an instant case of severe dehydration. 

Hunter stopped in front of me, putting his hands into his pockets while mine began to sweat again—this time from pheromone poisoning. 

“We haven’t been formally introduced. I’m Hunter.” 

“I know.” Beginner’s guide to humiliating oneself. Step one: light a match. Step two: engulf cheeks. Step three: hold shoulders square and respond how you should have to begin with. “I’m Luna.”

“Luna.” He nodded gently. “You’re the public defender everyone’s been talking about.” 

Ugh, I figured hearing him this close to me for the first time wouldn’t be that different from hearing him in court. Wrong. His dark and sensual voice would absolutely be replaying in my ears all night, no matter how much I fought it. 

“The one wreaking havoc on the state’s conviction rate.”

“That’s an exaggeration,” I assured. “But thank you.”

He held still for a second. Probably sensed I needed a minute to recover from his sensuality. 

“Only a sparse few have won against me in court.” Hunter’s gaze raked over my face so meticulously, he seemed to be cataloging every pigment of my skin and thick, wavy brown hair before navigating to my attire. 

A suit I’d snagged off the clearance rack at the outlet store I could afford. One with a tiny red stain on the right sleeve that earned it an additional 75% off. In the store, I’d convinced myself no one would notice—it was only the size of a pencil eraser—but of course, Hunter Lockwood’s eyes zeroed in on said stain.

Of course.

I slammed my hand over the unfortunate ink, and dammit if he didn’t smirk before dragging his gaze back to mine. 

Good Lord.

That smirk of his did all sorts of unwanted things to me, and those eyes bored into me, commanding attention with a magnetic pull. It was as if I stood defenseless in the face of a raging cyclone, his tempestuous storm of a gaze sucking me into his vortex. Where I’d willingly surrender.

Heck, I’d grab a freaking patio umbrella to make it easier to be swept into his whipping winds.

“You’re not what I expected.” His voice was a low murmur, the corners of his mouth twitching with a hint of playfulness. “You’re rather…intriguing.”

Intriguing.

Someone who passed the bar on her first try shouldn’t have her knees literally weaken at his compliment.

He’s your professional adversary, Luna. Do. Not. Encourage. These. Butterflies. For. Hunter. Lockwood.

“There’s a sea of reporters out front.” His voice dipped with a touch of regret, making me wonder if he’d been looking forward to giving a statement like he usually did whenever he’d win a case. This story had drummed up regional interest because a local politician happened to be at the bar, having a drink when the homicide occurred.

“I’ll be taking my client out to give a statement.” Hopefully, once I left Hunter’s orbit, my IQ would return. 

“No, you won’t,” Franco said.

I turned around to see that both Franco and Dominic had come closer. 

“Dominic, the media slaughtered you.” Just like they slaughtered my father all those years ago. Always wanting a villain for their story and casting someone in the role, innocence be damned. “You deserve to tell them they got it wrong.”

And let’s be honest. I’m salivating at the chance, too. Not just because of Dominic, but also because nineteen years ago, I’d been too young to give the press a piece of my mind. 

“We don’t need the press, Dom,” Franco said. 

Some unspoken warning passed between them, something that crackled in my bones. I was convinced Dominic was innocent, so why was his cousin giving me the opposite vibe?

Franco glowered at Dominic. “No press.”

“They’re going to swarm you for a statement.” 

Please let Dominic prepare something for them—having your creepy cousin glare at reporters wouldn’t make them see they’d been wrong. Plus…

“If you refuse to give them one, they might just follow you to your car.”

“Then I’ll pull it around back. I’ll meet you behind the courthouse, Dominic.”

With one last glare at Hunter, Franco walked out of the room.

“I’m giving a statement.” I took a small step closer to Dominic. “I hope you’ll join me, but even if you don’t, I’ll still be addressing the reporters.”

Dominic pulled his lips into a smile that didn’t quite reach his eyes. 

“Thanks again, Luna. I appreciate all you did for me. I’ll, uh…” He put his hand on the back of his neck, watching where his cousin had vanished. “I’ll call you later, yeah?”

For a man who had just been found not guilty, what was with him walking with his head cast down and his steps slow—dragging his feet as he walked away?

“Well,” Hunter said, “maybe you should reconsider your victory speech.”

Fat chance. “No. Someone needs to defend Dominic in the public eye.” Otherwise, they’d just spin his not-guilty verdict as an injustice, and I was tired of it. 

Hunter stood there for a moment—looking like a fallen angel among us mortals, damn it—while his eyes seemed to savor my every detail. 

“Well,” he finally said, “congratulations, Luna. You certainly kept me on my toes.”

He winked at me—while I pretended I didn’t have a hot flash over it—and then ambled off, female groupies all rising in their pews, ready to worship their god. But he ignored every one of them calling his name as he left.

Thank goodness that encounter was over. I’d gone my entire life without acting like a seventh-grade girl drawing hearts in my notebook, and I sure as hell wasn’t about to start now. 

I was allergic to relationships—which was another whole story. 

Relationships? Why the hell did that word enter my mind? This was nothing more than attraction—unwanted attraction at that, and it would fade.

I would make sure of it.

I quickly packed up my belongings, touched up my lipstick, and started my path to the front of the courthouse, where reporters would be waiting on the steps.

A sudden chime from my cell phone broke my train of thought.

Charlotte: Have you heard?

I stopped cold. Charlotte and I didn’t text very often; we had no reason to, outside of the fact our dads were friends. Her father was my dad’s only friend, truthfully. They’d been cellmates for five years.

Me: Heard what?

The three dots on my screen pulsated, my throat growing drier with each one.

Charlotte: Your father is hurt. 

My feet cemented to the floor as my heart began spasming.

Me: Hurt how? Is he okay?

Charlotte: I don’t know. I don’t have the authority to call and check up on him, but my dad was visiting another friend at the prison and heard. 

Me: What happened? 

And why hadn’t the prison called me? 

Charlotte: A fight broke out, and your dad is in the infirmary.

The prison hospital. 

My stomach collapsed in on itself.

Me: Thank you for telling me, Charlotte. Seriously, thank you.

And then I turned and started jogging to the opposite end of the courthouse, where my car was parked.

Instantly, my reasons for hiding it in the back parking lot seemed insignificant. My car was a piece of crap, and I wanted to avoid the possibility of some reporter following me all the way to it. Looking professional was imperative, particularly to my clients who were scared, and I didn’t want them to think that their lawyer was so incompetent with finances that she couldn’t afford a basic car payment. So, I parked it out of sight.

I jogged down the bustling main corridor, veering right into a quieter hallway. Then I hung a left, another right, and finally, I headed down the last passageway leading to the back parking lot, wondering…

What happened to my father?

Was he going to be okay?

He shouldn’t even be in that godforsaken prison! 

The exterior door gave way with a forceful push, and the summer’s sweltering heat assaulted me. The rhythmic click of my heels echoed on the asphalt, and as I rounded a colossal truck that obscured my vision, preparing to navigate through the sea of vehicles, a sudden snag caught my foot.

I stumbled, my palms scraping against the unforgiving pavement. With wide, horrified eyes and a dread washing over me, I absorbed a scene that would forever be etched into my nightmares.

I had tripped over a lifeless leg, belonging to someone that was bleeding profusely.

No. Not someone.

Dominic.

While a menacing figure, cloaked in dark cloth, stood over Dominic with a knife, its serrated edge dripping with crimson. 

I realized with horror that it was Dominic’s blood, which was also dripping from a gash in Dominic’s neck, his skin filleted gruesomely like a steak. The assailant standing over him wore a split-face mask, one side red, the other side black, with a strange gray mesh covering the eyes from view. Still, I felt those eyes boring into me.

The woman who’d just stumbled onto Dominic’s murder.

The comforting warmth of the sun retreated, and every sound faded into a deafening silence as an ominous chill crawled up my spine, weaving icy tendrils around my ribs. 

As I stared at a wolf who’d cornered a lamb that had wandered into his den.