The Kingmaker (The Inferno #1)

Chapter 1 Emilio

"Emilio. My office. Five minutes."

He didn't wait for a response. Senior partners at Sterling & Associates didn't need to wait for anything, least of all acknowledgment from associates clawing their way toward partnership.

I saved my work, straightened my tie, and tried not to think about the stack of bills waiting at home or the student loan payment that would overdraw my account if I didn't transfer money I didn't have.

The file was waiting on Richard's pristine desk when I arrived. Thick. Official. The kind of case that either made careers or destroyed them.

"Alessandro Vitale," Richard said, sliding it toward me. "Assault charges. Incident at his nightclub three weeks ago. Victim's arm broken in three places."

I opened the file. Police reports. Medical records. Witness statements that contradicted each other so completely they might as well have been describing different incidents. Security footage that mysteriously malfunctioned at the exact moment violence occurred.

My stomach turned.

"You're assigning me a mob case." It wasn't a question.

Richard's expression didn't change. "I'm assigning you a high-value client who deserves vigorous representation. The firm has standards, Emilio. We don't discriminate based on—"

"Reputation? Criminal connections? The fact that everyone knows Alessandro Vitale runs half the organized crime in New York?"

"—unproven allegations," Richard finished smoothly. "Mr. Vitale has never been convicted of anything. He's a successful businessman who owns several legitimate enterprises. He's entitled to the best legal defense we can provide."

I stared at the name stamped across the top of the file in bold letters. Alessandro "Sandro" Vitale. I'd heard the name before. Everyone had. The kind of man whose business dealings got mentioned in whispers.

"I don't defend criminals," I said.

Richard leaned back in his leather chair—the kind that cost more than my monthly rent. "You've handled three pro bono cases this year. Zero revenue generated. Your billable hours are down forty percent from last quarter. Partnership decisions are made in six months, Emilio."

The words hit like a physical blow. I'd known my numbers were bad. I hadn't realized they were catastrophic.

"You need to bring in major clients," Richard continued. "Prove you can handle high-stakes cases. Mr. Vitale's retainer is two hundred thousand dollars. Upfront. With the potential for significantly more if this goes to trial."

Two hundred thousand dollars. I thought about the student loan debt that woke me at 3 AM in a cold sweat.

The shitty studio apartment in a building where the heat barely worked.

The car that made concerning noises every time I started it.

The divorce settlement that had cleaned out what little savings I'd managed to accumulate.

"He's connected to organized crime," I said, but my voice had lost its conviction.

"He's a businessman who needs representation. Take the case, Emilio. Or I'll assign it to Henderson, and we'll have a very different conversation about your future here in six months."

Henderson. The mediocre associate who brought in his father's corporate clients and coasted on family connections. The thought of losing partnership to that incompetent asshole made my teeth ache.

I picked up the file. The weight of it felt significant in my hands. "I'll need full disclosure. Complete honesty about what happened that night. If he lies to me even once, I withdraw."

"Of course." Richard's smile was thin. "Mr. Vitale appreciates integrity. I'm sure you two will work well together."

The dismissal was clear. I left his office with the file clutched against my chest like a shield that might protect me from what I was about to do. My principles had price tags, apparently. Two hundred thousand dollars and the promise of partnership.

In the elevator, I opened the file again.

Scanned the police reports more carefully this time.

The victim—nephew of a rival family, according to the notes—had pulled a knife on a waitress.

Matteo DeLuca, identified as Vitale's head of security, had intervened.

The nephew's arm got broken in the confrontation.

Three witnesses saw the knife. All three had since recanted their statements.

I found myself reading that detail twice. All three witnesses had changed their stories. Not some. Not most. All.

The elevator doors opened on the lobby. I stood there like an idiot, staring at the file, until they started to close. Someone held them open.

"You getting off?"

I stepped out. Crossed the marble lobby. Made it to my car before I really let myself think about what I'd just agreed to.

Alessandro Vitale.

I pulled out my phone and searched his name.

Articles appeared—business deals, real estate acquisitions, charitable donations.

All legitimate on the surface. But threaded through them were the other stories.

The ones that used words like "alleged" and "suspected" and "sources close to the investigation. "

Violence. Money laundering. Political corruption. The kind of power that made people disappear when they became inconvenient.

I found a photograph embedded in an article about a federal courthouse appearance.

The image was grainy—some journalist with a telephoto lens catching Vitale as he left after charges were dismissed.

He wore a three-piece suit that probably cost more than my car.

Dark hair swept back from a face that was all sharp angles and cruel beauty.

Even in the blurred image, something about his posture radiated control.

Power. The absolute certainty of a predator who'd never been prey.

My pulse quickened.

I sat in my car in the parking garage and stared at that photograph for longer than I should have. Tried to tell myself it was professional curiosity. Tried to ignore the heat that spread through my chest and lower, settling heavy between my thighs.

This was a terrible idea. Every instinct I had screamed warnings. But I needed this case. Needed the money and the career boost and the chance to prove I belonged in those partnership discussions. Needed it so badly I could taste it.

My phone rang. I almost didn't answer when I saw the name.

"Marco."

"Emilio." My ex-husband's voice carried that tone—the one that said he was about to offer unsolicited advice disguised as concern. "I heard through the grapevine that Sterling assigned you the Vitale case."

Of course he'd heard. Marco worked as an assistant district attorney. The legal community in New York was incestuous and gossipy. Everyone knew everything.

"I haven't decided if I'm taking it yet," I lied.

"Don't."

Marco's certainty grated. We'd been divorced for eight months. He'd lost the right to tell me what to do when he'd fucked that paralegal in our bed.

"It's a legitimate case," I said. "Everyone deserves representation."

"Vitale's connected to the worst kind of people. You take this case, you're painting a target on your back. The DA's office keeps files on everyone who represents him. Your name will be in those files."

"Then I'll make sure my representation is exemplary and above reproach."

"Jesus, Emilio. This isn't about legal ethics. This is about your safety. About your reputation. You can't defend monsters and expect to come out clean."

The word "monsters" made me think of that photograph again. The cold beauty of Vitale's face. The way even a blurry image managed to convey danger.

"I appreciate your concern," I said, keeping my voice level. "But my career decisions aren't your business anymore."

"Your funeral," Marco said. Then, softer: "I'm trying to help you. For old times' sake."

Old times. Like the six years we'd been together meant anything compared to his dick in someone else. "I need to go. Thanks for calling."

I hung up before he could say anything else. Sat in my car breathing too fast, hands shaking slightly. Marco always did this—made me doubt myself with that perfectly calibrated mix of condescension and false care.

Fuck him. Fuck his concerns and his warnings and his certainty that he knew what was best for me.

I drove home through rush hour traffic, the file riding passenger. Every red light gave me time to second-guess. Every honking horn felt like a warning. By the time I pulled into my building's sad excuse for a parking lot, I'd talked myself out of taking the case at least six times.

Then I looked at the file again. Two hundred thousand dollars.

Inside my apartment—studio, barely 400 square feet, furniture from IKEA and desperation—I spread everything across my coffee table. Police reports. Medical records. Witness statements. Crime scene photos.

The nephew's arm looked bad. Compound fracture. Surgery required. But the photos also showed a knife on the ground nearby. Close enough to support the self-defense claim.

I opened my laptop and really researched this time.

Went deeper than the public articles. Found court records.

Previous cases. The pattern became clear: Alessandro Vitale had been arrested five times in the past decade.

Zero convictions. Witnesses recanted. Evidence disappeared.

Prosecutors who came after him aggressively found their careers derailed.

I should have been horrified. Instead, I felt a strange fascination curl in my gut. This was a man who bent reality to his will. Who made the legal system work for him through means I couldn't prove but could easily imagine.

Dangerous. Powerful. Untouchable.

I found more photographs. Vitale at charity galas in tailored tuxedos.

Vitale leaving restaurants with beautiful people on his arm.

Vitale in business meetings, shaking hands with politicians and corporate executives.

He photographed well—the camera loved those sharp cheekbones, that cold mouth, those eyes that looked black in most images.

My phone buzzed. Text from an unknown number: "Looking forward to working with you, Counselor."

I stared at the message. I hadn't given Vitale my cell phone number. Hadn't even officially agreed to take the case. But somehow he had my number anyway and knew I would agree.

The presumption should have angered me. Instead, my cock stirred.

I was so fucked.

I called my law school mentor, Professor Sarah Chen. She'd helped me navigate the transition from academia to practice, had written recommendation letters, had always given me straight advice without sugar coating.

"Emilio," she said, warmth in her voice. "It's been too long. How are you?"

"Conflicted," I admitted. "Sterling assigned me a case. High-profile client. Questionable connections. It could make my career or destroy it."

Silence. Then: "Alessandro Vitale."

"You've heard."

"Everyone's heard. The legal gossip mill works faster than the internet." She sighed. "I'm going to give you advice you're not going to like."

"Decline the case."

"Decline the case," she confirmed. "Immediately. Vitale ruins people, Emilio. Lawyers who represent him either end up disbarred or so morally compromised they can't look at themselves in mirrors. There's no winning with men like that. They corrupt everything they touch."

"I need this case," I said quietly. "My numbers are terrible. I'm drowning in debt. Partnership decisions are in six months and if I don't bring in major clients, I'm done at Sterling."

"Then find different major clients. Corporate work. White collar defense. Anything except organized crime."

"Those clients don't want me. I'm not connected enough. Don't have the right pedigree. Vitale's retainer is two hundred thousand dollars, Sarah. That's more than I made all last year."

Another silence. Longer this time. "You've already decided to take it."

Had I? I looked at the spread of files on my coffee table. At that photograph of Vitale leaving the courthouse, all cold beauty and controlled power. At my bank statement on the screen showing an account balance that wouldn't cover rent.

"Yes," I said. "I think I have."

"Then I can't help you." Sarah's voice carried disappointment that cut deeper than Marco's judgment ever could. "Be careful, Emilio. Men like Vitale don't see people as people. We're all just tools to be used or obstacles to be removed. Don't forget which category you fall into."

She hung up. I sat in my apartment surrounded by evidence of violence and corruption, thinking about the text message on my phone and the cold certainty in that photograph.

Looking forward to working with you, Counselor.

I should have been afraid. Should have felt the weight of the terrible decision I was making. Instead, I felt alive in a way I hadn't since before my marriage collapsed. Electric. Dangerous. Like standing at the edge of something that could either destroy me or transform me.

Soon I would meet Alessandro Vitale. Soon I would step into his world and see if I could survive it. Soon I would find out whether I was strong enough to defend a monster without becoming one myself.

Tonight, I sat in my shitty apartment and tried not to think about how badly I wanted to see if the man was as devastating in person as he was in photographs.

Tried not to acknowledge the heat pooling low in my belly at the thought of those dark eyes focused on me.

Tried not to imagine what it would feel like to be seen—really seen—by someone that powerful.

I failed at all three.

I opened my laptop and started preparing questions. Trial strategy. Defense theories. All the professional armor I could construct to protect myself from what I suspected was coming.

It wouldn't be enough. I knew that already. Men like Alessandro Vitale didn't get defended—they got worshipped or destroyed, and there was no safe middle ground.

I was going to worship him. I could feel it in my bones. In the way my cock had hardened just thinking about meeting him. In the way my pulse raced at the thought of those cold eyes examining me like a problem to be solved.

This was going to ruin me.

And God help me, part of me couldn't wait.