Chapter 2: The Judge's Last Resort
The sidewalk outside the courthouse felt like another planet. The air was cool, carrying the damp, mineral scent of the Douro River, and the pale autumn sun cut through the narrow Porto streets in sharp angles. Sónia walked beside Marco, the silence between them now charged with a different energy. It wasn’t the electric tension of her office or the horrified comedy of the men’s room. This was quieter, a tentative ceasefire.
“It’s just up here,” he said, gesturing with a tilt of his head. “Café Central. Doesn’t look like much. Is.”
She nodded, her hands buried in the pockets of her blazer. She could still feel the ghost of his palms on her hips. The memory was a live wire in her stomach. To dispel it, she grasped for professionalism. “The Mendes case crosses my desk next week. The expedited review.”
He glanced at her, a wry smile touching his lips. “Is this our lunch conversation, Your Honour?”
“It’s a point of procedure.”
“It’s a point of avoidance.” He stopped in front of a heavy oak door with fogged glass. The gilt lettering read ‘Café Central.’ “Lunch first. Procedure later.”
He held the door for her. The interior was a cavern of dark wood and faded grandeur, buzzing with the low hum of lawyers, clerks, and shopkeepers on their break. The air was thick with the rich smell of roasted coffee and fried food. Marco led her to a small, round table tucked beside a towering bookshelf filled with dusty legal digests. It was semi-private.
“See? Religious experience,” he said, nodding to the menu chalked on a board.
A young waiter appeared. Marco ordered two steak sandwiches and two beers without asking her preference. She didn’t object. The act of being decided for was strangely relieving.
When the beers arrived, condensation beading on the glasses, Marco raised his. “To better navigation.”
A real smile, small and unwilling, broke through her reserve. She clinked her glass against his. “To improved pat-down protocols.”
They drank. The beer was cold and sharp. For a few minutes, they ate in a comfortable quiet, the chaos of the morning receding into a shared, bizarre story. Sónia felt her shoulders begin to unlock.
“You handled Rocha well,” Marco said, wiping his mouth. “After. In the bathroom. Most people would have screamed the place down.”
“I considered it,” she admitted, picking at a piece of fried onion. “But my capacity for professional scandal was already overdrawn for the day. A hysterical judge in the men’s room would have been the end of me.”
“You’re not hysterical.” He said it as a simple fact. “You’re…” He searched for the word, his dark eyes on hers. “Adaptable.”
Before she could process that, her phone buzzed on the table. A text from her clerk, Paulo. Judge Ferreira stopped by. Wanted to discuss the Costa appeal. Said he’d try again later.
Ferreira. The colleague from the hallway, watching her. The message felt like an intrusion, a rope tethering her back to the world of glances and expectations. She flipped the phone face down.
“Trouble?” Marco asked.
“The usual ecosystem.” She took a long swallow of beer. “Sometimes I think the courtroom is the simplest part of the job. It’s the hallways that are complicated.”
“I know the feeling.” He leaned back, his chair creaking. “Every case has two investigations: the one on the street, and the one in the squad room. The second one’s usually dirtier.”
She studied him—the salt-and-pepper stubble, the fine lines at the corners of his eyes that spoke of long nights and hard stares. The quiet sadness he carried like a coat. “Why did you become a detective?” The question left her before she could filter it.
He was silent for a moment, tracing a pattern in the condensation on his glass. “My wife,” he said finally, the word dropping softly between them. “She was sick for a long time. Watching someone you love get picked apart by something you can’t fight… it does something to you. After she died, I needed to fight things I could actually see. Grab hold of.” He looked up, giving her a shrug that was meant to seem casual but wasn’t. “It’s not a noble origin story. Just the truth.”
Sónia’s throat tightened. Her own reasons for the law felt abstract, academic, in comparison. “I’m sorry,” she said, the words inadequate.
“Don’t be. It was a long time ago.” He cleared his throat, shifting the weight of the memory. “What about you? Why the bench? The power?”
She laughed, a short, genuine sound. “The power is an illusion. It’s the puzzle. I like untangling knots. Even when,” she added, thinking of the morning, “the knots are my own.”
Their eyes held. The noise of the café faded to a distant buzz. The space between them across the small table felt charged, thinner somehow.
“I should…” She gestured vaguely towards the back of the café. “The restroom. Actually check the sign this time.”
His mouth quirked. “I’ll guard the fries.”
She stood, smoothing her skirt, and made her way through the maze of tables towards a dim corridor marked with silhouette plaques. She stopped, double-checking the figure in the dress. Women’s. Good. She pushed the door open.
The restroom was a slice of vintage neglect. Marble tiles, yellowed with age, gold-framed mirrors foggy at the edges. A single bulb flickered overhead, casting long, jumping shadows. It smelled of old espresso and a faint, fake lavender from a soap dispenser. One of the three stall doors was closed.
She set her small purse on the edge of a cracked porcelain sink and turned on the tap, the pipes groaning. The water was cold. She splashed a little on her wrists, trying to settle the strange, soaring feeling in her chest. Marco’s confession, his wife. The raw honesty of it. It changed the shape of him, made the magnetic pull more dangerous, more real.
A sound from the closed stall. A rustle, then a low, pained curse.
Sónia stilled, her eyes lifting to the scratched metal door in the mirror. She wasn’t alone. She shut off the tap, the silence suddenly heavy. The main door to the café was half-open, the dull murmur of conversation a world away.
The stall latch clicked.
The door swung inward slowly. The person who stepped out was not a woman.
He was tall, lean, with sharp cheekbones and wide, frightened eyes. He wore a cheap, sparkly top and tight jeans, but the stubble on his chin was dark against pale skin. A travesti. In his hands was a small, overflowing cloth bag. He froze when he saw her, his gaze darting from her to the main door.
Sónia’s mind processed it in a millisecond. A safe place to change, to stash earnings, to breathe. She offered a small, neutral nod and turned back to the mirror, giving him space, her heart knocking once against her ribs. A non-event. She reached for a paper towel.
But his fear had a different scent. It was acrid, panicked. She saw his reflection move, not toward the door, but toward her. Fast.
Her body understood before her mind did. She started to turn, to ask a question, but it was too late.
A hand, slick with sweat, clamped over her mouth from behind, cutting off her air. The taste of salt and cheap perfume. Her head was wrenched back against a bony shoulder. At the same moment, she felt a sharp, insistent pressure against her hip, just above the waistband of her skirt. Not a fist. A point. Cold, thin metal. A shiv. A homemade blade.
“Don’t make a sound, senhora,” a voice hissed in her ear, trembling. “Not one fucking sound.”
Her body went rigid. Her eyes, wide, stared at their tangled reflection in the foggy mirror—the elegant judge in her wrinkled blazer, the terrified young man holding her like a lover. His other hand fumbled at her side, trying to push the cloth bag into her free hand. “Take it. You walk out with it. Now.”
The logic of his panic was clear. He’d been seen. He needed a clean woman, a respectable woman, to carry his bag out past whatever or whoever was waiting. Her. His grip on her mouth was suffocating. The blade tip pressed harder, a promise of a sharp, intimate tear. She felt her skirt ride up her thighs as he shuffled them both towards the stall, trying to get them out of the immediate line of sight from the door.
Marco was thirty feet away, past that door, guarding the fries.
All she had to do was scream. One muffled scream, a crash. He’d be there in seconds.
But the blade was an immediate, persuasive counter-argument. It wasn’t at her throat; it was angled upward, towards her soft belly. A gut wound was a messy, agonizing way to die. This kid was shaking. Shaking hands did unpredictable things.
Her mind, the part that untangled knots, raced. Adrenaline made everything hyper-clear: the flicker of the light, the grain of the marble, the frantic beat of his heart against her back. Her own body betrayed her with a rush of pure, animal fear—her nipples tightened painfully against the silk of her blouse, a useless, physiological reaction.
She forced her body to go limp, not to fight. A compliant victim was a thinking victim. She made a low, questioning sound in her throat, not a scream. A negotiation.
He loosened his hand a fraction over her lips. “Quiet,” he breathed.
“I’m not your problem,” she whispered, the words vibrating against his palm. Her voice was calmer than she felt. “I walk out. You stay. No bag. Clean break.”
“They’re outside. They saw me come in here.” His voice cracked. “You take the bag. You just walk. Please.”
“Who’s outside?”
“Doesn’t matter. Please.” The blade pricked; she felt a tiny sting, a dot of heat on her skin. A warning.
Outside, she heard a burst of laughter from the café. Marco’s laugh? She couldn’t tell. Time was stretching, snapping. She had seconds before he truly panicked, or before someone else walked in.
She looked at his eyes in the mirror. They were young, drowning. This wasn’t a predator. It was prey, cornered. And cornered prey was the most dangerous kind.
“Okay,” she breathed, the word surrendering on a exhale. “Okay. I’ll take it.”
His relief was a physical sag. The pressure of the blade lessened, just for an instant.
It was the instant she needed.
She didn’t fight his grip. She moved with it. She let her weight drop suddenly, a dead fall towards the floor. His hand slipped from her mouth as he staggered to hold her up. Her elbow drove back, not aiming for strength but for disruption, connecting hard with his ribs. He grunted, the shiv wavering.
“Marco!” The name tore from her throat, raw and loud, just as the main restroom door swung open.
Not Marco.
A woman in a server’s apron stood frozen, a stack of clean hand towels in her arms, her mouth a perfect ‘O’.
The world compressed into that open doorway, into the waitress’s shocked face. Sónia’s shout still hung in the damp air. The travesti’s breath hitched against her neck, a sharp intake of pure terror. Time didn’t slow. It snapped.
He moved.
Still gripping Sónia, he lunged, his free arm shooting out like a whip. His hand closed on the waitress’s forearm. A yelp died in her throat as he yanked her forward, the stack of towels scattering like white birds across the tiles. He shoved Sónia sideways, her hip cracking against the sink edge, and hauled the waitress into the room. The heavy oak door slammed shut. A definitive, deafening sound.
The lock clicked.
Silence, but for three people breathing in ragged, disjointed rhythm. The waitress, a girl no older than twenty, was pinned against the door, her eyes wide with a confusion that hadn’t yet curdled into full panic. Sónia, leaning on the sink for support, met the young man’s gaze. His eyes were wild, the sharp plan from moments ago shattered. He was adapting. Surviving. He still held the shiv, its point now swinging between the two of them.
“You said you’d take the bag,” he whispered, the accusation trembling.
“You put a blade to my stomach,” Sónia countered, her voice low and measured. The judge-voice. It was the only armor she had left. “That changes the contract.”
The waitress whimpered. “I don’t have any money. Please.”
“Shut up. Both of you, shut the fuck up.” He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging a clip. “He’s out there. He’ll wait. He’ll think I’m gone.”
“Who?” Sónia asked.
“A client. A bad one.” He leaned his head back against the door, eyes closed. The sparkly top rose and fell with his frantic breaths. “I took something. He wants it back. Or he wants me. Fuck.”
The calculus changed instantly. This wasn’t just about being seen. It was a transaction gone violently wrong. The bag wasn’t earnings; it was contraband or stolen goods. And a dangerous man was stationed between them and the café, between her and Marco.
Sónia’s mind raced, discarding options. Shouting was out; it would bring the wrong man first. The window was a narrow, froged-glass slit, impossible. They were in a marble box with a single, locked exit.
“What’s in the bag?” she asked.
“Something that isn’t yours.” His eyes opened, sharp again. “You’re the judge. Bastos. I’ve seen your picture.”
A cold drip went down her spine. He knew her. This was no longer random.
“Then you know causing me harm would be exceptionally stupid,” she said, forcing steel into her tone.
“Causing me harm is what’s out there!” he hissed, pushing off the door. He gestured with the shiv. “Sit. Both of you. On the floor.”
The waitress slid down immediately, hugging her knees. Sónia remained standing, her gaze locked on his. She thought of Marco, just beyond the door. Had he heard her shout? Would he check, or assume she was just taking a moment? The doubt was a sickening twist in her gut.
“Sit down!” The travesti’s voice broke into a shrill command. He took a step towards the waitress, the blade lowering towards her face.
Sónia moved. Slowly, she lowered herself to the cold tiles, the posture of defeat making her skin crawl. She needed him to think he was in control. She needed him to calm down.
“You have a name?” she asked, looking up at him.
“Why?”
“Because ‘hey you’ is poor crisis management.” She kept her hands visible on her knees. The waitress was crying softly, tears cutting through her light makeup.
A long pause. “Rui.”
“Okay, Rui. The man outside. What does he look like?”
“Big. Bald. A wolf tattoo on his neck.” Rui paced the narrow space, two steps each way. “He’s not alone. There’s another one by the front door.”
Two men. Possibly armed. Marco was one detective, off-duty, presumably unarmed. The odds were bad. The risk was catastrophic.
A new sound pierced the muffled café noise—a sharp, insistent rapping on the restroom door. Three quick knocks.
“Sónia?” Marco’s voice, low but clear, came through the wood. “Everything alright in there?”
Rui froze, his eyes widening in fresh panic. He pressed a finger to his lips, the shiv hovering near the waitress’s cheek. She choked back a sob.
Sónia looked from Rui’s terrified face to the terrified waitress. A decision crystallized, cold and hard. “A moment, Marco!” she called out, her voice strained but deliberate. “My skirt. I’ve caught it on something. A hook. I’m tangled.”
She poured every ounce of meaning into the words. I am restrained. I am not alone.
Silence from the other side. Too long.
Then, his voice came again, calm, conversational. “Right. Do you need a hand with the clasp?”
Her heart hammered. He’d understood. “No! No, I’ve almost got it. Two minutes.”
“I’ll wait right here.” His tone was easy, but the implication was solid. He wasn’t leaving.
Rui mouthed thank you to her, the gratitude in his eyes stark and pathetic. He thought she was playing along for him. He didn’t understand she was playing for time, for Marco to formulate a plan that didn’t end with a blade in someone’s gut.
The waitress’s crying was a soft, maddening drone. The air in the small room grew hotter, thicker with sweat and fear and cheap lavender. Sónia’s knees ached on the hard floor. She watched Rui watch the door, his entire body a coiled spring.
Suddenly, from the café side, a crash. The sound of shattering ceramic, followed by raised, angry voices—a masculine roar, then Marco’s voice, sharp and commanding, though the words were indistinct. A distraction. A fight.
Rui flinched. “What’s he doing?”
“His job,” Sónia said quietly.
Another sound, closer. A scratching at the top of the restroom door, near the hinges. A faint, metallic click. Rui didn’t hear it, his attention locked on the verbal commotion outside.
Sónia’s breath caught. She understood. The ceiling. There must be a drop panel, an access for plumbing. Marco was creating a diversion and going over.
She had to hold Rui’s focus. “He’ll have called it in by now,” she said, her voice cutting through the waitress’s sniffles. “Porto Polícia will be surrounding the building. That bald man outside will be in custody soon. Your problem will be gone.”
“And I’ll be in a cell,” Rui spat.
“Possibly. But alive. That’s the trade right now, Rui. Alive in a cell, or dead on this floor when that man decides to kick this door in.”
He stared at her, the truth of it dawning. The options were all terrible. He wiped his nose with the back of his hand, the shiv shaking.
A fine sprinkle of dust filtered down from above the last stall. Sónia kept her eyes fixed on Rui, not giving it away.
“I’m not going back to prison,” he whispered, more to himself than to her.
Above them, in the ceiling cavity, a foot slipped. Just a scrape of a shoe on metal. Rui’s head snapped up.
It was all the opening Marco needed.
The ceiling tile above the sink exploded downward in a shower of dust and fibreglass. Marco dropped through the hole like a weight, landing in a crouch on the sink counter, his balance absolute, his face a mask of focused violence.
Rui screamed, a raw sound of shock, and spun, the shiv flashing as he thrust it upward towards Marco’s legs.
Marco was already moving. He kicked out, his shoe connecting with Rui’s wrist. The blade clattered across the tiles. In the same motion, Marco dropped from the counter, his weight driving Rui into the marble wall with a sickening thud. An arm went around Rui’s throat, cutting off his scream. A brief, fierce struggle, all grunts and scraping shoes, then went still, subdued in a professional hold.
The entire violence lasted less than five seconds.
The waitress scrambled away, her back hitting the door, weeping openly now. Sónia stood up, her legs trembling, the adrenaline crashing over her in a wave so intense it left her nauseous. Dust motes swam in the flickering light.
Marco looked at her over Rui’s shoulder. “You’re bleeding,” he said, his voice rough.
She looked down. A small, dark spot of red stained her silk shell where the shiv had pricked her. “It’s nothing.”
He gave a short, sharp nod, his eyes doing a rapid scan of her body before returning to his prisoner. “The two outside are detained. My partner was at the bar. We had a chat with them.” He applied pressure, and Rui went limp, unconscious or compliant. Marco lowered him to the floor. Only then did he step over the body and close the distance to Sónia in two strides.
His hands came up, cupping her face. They were dirty from the ceiling, warm, and completely steady. “Did he hurt you?”
“No.”
“You’re sure.”
“Yes.”
He searched her eyes, as if verifying the truth of the statement for himself. Then his gaze dropped to her mouth. The last thread of his control, the professional detachment, snapped.
He kissed her.
It was not gentle. It was a claiming, a release of all the pent-up tension from the office, the hallway, the long lunch, the terror of the last minutes. His mouth was hard and desperate on hers. She tasted coffee, dust, and the sharp tang of his fear for her. She didn’t hesitate. She kissed him back with equal ferocity, her hands fisting in the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. A low groan vibrated from his chest into hers.
The waitress let out a small, shocked gasp. They ignored it. The world was the heat of his mouth, the solid wall of his body, the proof of being alive.
When he broke the kiss, they were both breathing raggedly. He rested his forehead against hers. “My place,” he said, the words a rough command. “Now. Not a debate.”
She nodded, beyond words. Beyond reason.
He took her hand, leading her around the unconscious Rui. He unlocked the restroom door, pushing it open to reveal a circle of stunned café patrons and his plainclothes partner, who stood over two burly, handcuffed men. Marco didn’t stop. He shouldered through the crowd, pulling Sónia behind him, a path clearing before their combined, fierce energy.
They didn’t speak in the taxi. He gave an address in Foz, his hand gripping hers on the seat between them, his thumb stroking possessive circles on her skin. She stared out the window, seeing none of the passing city, feeling only the pound of her own blood and the lingering promise of his mouth.
His apartment was a third-floor walk-up overlooking a quiet street, sparsely furnished, clean, and male. He closed the door and locked it. The final click echoed.
Then he was on her.
He backed her against the door, his body pinning hers, his mouth finding her neck, her jaw, her lips again. This was not the cautious exploration of new lovers. This was a conflagration. His hands were everywhere, tearing at the buttons of her blazer, shoving it off her shoulders. It fell to the floor.
“This fucking blouse,” he growled against her skin, his fingers pulling at the silk shell, the delicate fabric no match for his intent. A button popped and pinged against the wood floor. He didn’t stop. He peeled the material apart, exposing her black lace bra, her heavy breasts spilling over the cups.
“Christ,” he breathed, his voice full of raw hunger. His mouth left hers to trail down her throat, over the swell of her breast. He bit gently at the lace, then tugged it down with his teeth, freeing one peaked, dusky nipple. He took it into his mouth, hot and wet, his tongue swirling, sucking deeply.
Sónia cried out, her head thumping back against the door. Her hands flew to his hair, gripping the salt-and-pepper strands. The sensation was electric, a direct line from her breast to the throbbing ache between her legs. He lavished attention on one, then the other, his hands squeezing the full, heavy weight of her, his thumbs abrading her nipples.
“Marco,” she gasped.
He straightened, kissing her again, his tongue plunging into her mouth. His hands went to her skirt, finding the zipper at the back. He yanked it down. The sound was obscenely loud. The pencil skirt pooled at her feet, leaving her in only her heels, her ruined silk shell, and her panties. He broke the kiss to look at her, his eyes dark with lust.
“You are so fucking perfect,” he muttered, his gaze raking over her. He spun her around, pressing her front against the cool wood of the door. She felt him behind her, the hard ridge of his erection pressing against her backside through his trousers. One hand slid around her hip, dipping into her panties. His fingers found her wet, slick folds.
“You’re soaked,” he hissed in her ear, his voice thick with satisfaction. “Were you this wet when he had the knife to you?”
The vulgarity, the rawness of the question, sent a fresh jolt through her. She couldn’t answer. She just moaned as two of his fingers pushed inside her, curling, stretching her. He fucked her with his fingers, his palm grinding against her clit with each thrust.
“Tell me,” he demanded, his teeth on her earlobe.
“Yes,” she sobbed, the admission torn from her. The fear, the adrenaline, it had all been a twisted kind of foreplay.
He withdrew his fingers, bringing them to his mouth to taste her. He groaned. Then his hands were on her hips, pulling her panties down her thighs. He kicked her skirt aside. “Bend over,” he ordered, his voice guttural.
She bent, placing her hands flat against the door, her back arched. He fumbled with his own belt, his zip. She heard the rustle of clothing, the tear of a foil packet. Then the blunt, wide head of his cock was pressing against her, nudging through her wetness.
He didn’t enter her slowly. He pushed forward, one long, relentless stroke that buried him to the hilt inside her.
Sónia screamed, a short, sharp sound of utter fullness. He was big, stretching her exquisitely. He paused for a second, letting her adjust, his hands gripping her hips so tightly she knew there would be bruises. She could feel every inch of him, hot and hard and deep.
“Fuck,” he choked out. Then he began to move.
He set a brutal, driving pace from the start, pulling almost all the way out before slamming back into her. The force of it shoved her forward, her breasts swaying heavily with each thrust, her nipples scraping against the wood. The sound was filthy: the slap of his skin against hers, their ragged breathing, her own choked cries.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his pace never faltering. “That’s for scaring the living shit out of me.”
He angled his hips, and on the next thrust he hit a spot inside her that made her vision whiten. She came with a shocked, strangled gasp, her inner walls clenching rhythmically around his cock. The orgasm ripped through her, uncontrolled and devastating.
He felt it, and it tipped him over the edge. With a final, deep drive, he buried himself and let go, his own groan long and shuddering as he pulsed inside her. He collapsed over her back, his weight pressing her into the door, his breath hot on her neck.
They stayed like that for a long minute, connected, dripping sweat, hearts hammering against each other. The only sound was their slowing breath.
Slowly, he softened and slipped out of her. He turned her around, his hands gentle now, cradling her face. He kissed her softly, a stark contrast to the violence of their coupling.
Then his eyes drifted over her shoulder, to the door they were leaning against. A faint, smug smile touched his lips. “You know,” he said, his voice hoarse, “for a judge, you have a real problem with doors.”
She laughed then, a shaky, unsteady sound that was almost a sob. She was raw, exposed, utterly spent, and completely, terrifyingly his.
In the quiet apartment, her phone began to buzz on the floor, inside her discarded blazer. Judge Ferreira, trying again. The world was waiting. But for now, it was very, very far away.