Page 119 of Clinically Delicious
Chapter Twenty-Four
Gabriel
John Portman called at seven-thirty the next morning.
I was in the kitchen, watching Cate make pancakes while Megan sat at the counter drawing pictures of “our family”—stick figures that included a dog we didn’t have and what appeared to be a dragon.
“Gabriel.” John’s voice was tight. Clipped. “We need to talk.”
I stepped into the hallway, closing the kitchen door behind me. “What’s wrong?”
“Richard Castellano.”
The name alone made my jaw tighten. Tonya’s husband. The man who’d sat in my living room three days ago, taking notes while his wife tried to take my daughter.
“What about him?”
“He’s not just a lawyer, Gabriel. He’s ashark. I did some digging after your meeting. The man has a ninety-two percent win rate in family court. He specializes in custody cases, and he doesn’t lose.”
My hand tightened on the phone. “You’re saying we can’t beat him.”
“I’m sayingIcan’t beat him.” John exhaled slowly. “You need someone better. Someone who plays the game the way Castellano does.”
“And you have someone in mind.”
“Anthony Gallagher.”
The name meant nothing to me. “Who?”
“New York City attorney. Born and raised in Brooklyn, he now practices in Nebraska, but he’s kept his New York bar license. Even better, he’s in town for a charity event and has agreed to meet with you. He’s got a reputation for being... aggressive. Uncompromising. He doesn’t take cases he can’t win, and he’s never lost a custody battle.”
“Never?”
“Never.” John paused. “There’s one thing you should know, though.”
Of course there was. “What?”
“He’s a member of a motorcycle club. The Silver Shadows. It’s legitimate—charity rides, community outreach, that sort of thing—but he’s... unconventional. Shows up to court in a suit, but he rides a Harley, and he doesn’t apologize for it.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “You’re recommending I hire a biker lawyer.”
“I’m recommending you hire the best custody attorney on the East Coast,” John corrected. “Who happens to ride a motorcycle. If you want to beat Richard Castellano, you need Anthony Gallagher.”
Through the kitchen door, I heard Cate laugh at something Megan said. Heard my daughter’s delighted giggle in response.
I’d do whatever it took to keep her.
“Set up a meeting,” I said.
Anthony Gallagher arrived at two PM on a motorcycle that sounded like controlled thunder.
I watched from the living room window as he pulled into the driveway—a man in his late forties, maybe early fifties, with a light dusting of silver hair and a leather jacket that had seen better days. He moved with the kind of confidence that came from decades of winning, swinging off the bike with practiced ease.
“Wow. Is that him?” Cate appeared beside me, wiping her hands on a dish towel. She’d been stress-baking since I told her about the meeting. The kitchen smelled of coffee and something cinnamon.
“That’s him.”
“He looks yummy.”
