Chapter 2 Sandro #2
He opened his mouth—probably to deliver some threat about how I wouldn't be so arrogant when I was in prison—but thought better of it. Smart. Some lines, once crossed, had consequences he wasn't prepared to face.
I left the courthouse through the main entrance, ignoring the reporters who shouted questions about the case. My driver, Thomas, waited with the car. I slid into the back seat and pulled out my phone.
"Well?" Matteo's voice was rough even over a cellular connection. "How'd the new lawyer do?"
"Better than expected. The bail got halved."
"Morrison would've set it at two-fifty anyway."
"Yes, but the lawyer made it look like he won the argument. Psychology matters." I watched Manhattan slide past the tinted windows. "He's good, Matteo. Smart. Knows how to work a courtroom."
"You sound pleased."
I was pleased. And intrigued. And experiencing an attraction I hadn't anticipated—which was its own kind of problem.
Emilio Rossi. Recent divorce. Desperate for money and career advancement. Intelligent enough to be useful, vulnerable enough to be malleable. The kind of man who could be shaped into exactly what I needed him to be.
The kind of man who'd looked at me in that courtroom with carefully hidden desire before forcing his attention elsewhere.
I'd built my empire on reading people accurately. On understanding what they wanted and using that knowledge to control them. Emilio wanted money, respect, professional success. Those were easy enough to provide in exchange for loyalty.
But there was something else there too. Something in the way he'd pulled back from that momentary contact. The way his breath had caught so slightly I'd almost missed it.
He wanted me. And he was horrified by that wanting.
Perfect.
"Set up the office for this afternoon," I told Matteo. "I'm meeting with Rossi at two. Make sure we're not disturbed."
"You planning to scare him or seduce him?"
"Why choose? Fear and desire aren't mutually exclusive." I ended the call.
The rest of my morning was consumed by the usual business.
Meeting with my accountant about the quarterly reports.
Call with a city councilman who needed reminding about which projects to support in the next budget cycle.
Lunch with a real estate developer who wanted permission to build in territory I controlled.
All of it routine. All of it necessary. All of it boring.
At 1:45, I was in my office at Inferno, reviewing the financial irregularities I'd been tracking. Someone was skimming money through shell accounts. Fifty thousand over three months. Small enough to be overlooked. Large enough to be deliberate.
Only five other people had the access codes needed to create those accounts. Three were my partners. One was our accountant, Vincent. The fifth was dead and buried in concrete.
Which meant someone I trusted was betraying me.
I made notes for later investigation. This required careful handling. Accusations without proof would fracture the partnerships I'd spent years building. But theft couldn't go unpunished either.
My phone buzzed at 1:58. Security at the door. "Mr. Rossi is here."
"Send him up."
I stood and moved to the window. My office overlooked the club's main floor—currently empty, since Inferno didn't open until nine PM—with floor-to-ceiling glass that let me observe without being seen.
Black marble desk. Italian leather chairs.
A single chess set, mid-game, on the side table.
Everything carefully curated to project power and control.
The door opened at exactly 2:00 PM.
Emilio stepped inside and stopped. I watched his reflection in the glass as he took in the space. Cataloging, just like I had with him. Assessing.
"Mr. Vitale." His voice was steady. Professional.
I turned from the window. "Mr. Rossi. Please, sit."
He chose the chair across from my desk rather than the couch—maintaining distance. Smart. He set his briefcase beside the chair and pulled out a legal pad covered in neat handwriting.
"I have questions about the incident," he began. "I need complete honesty about what happened that night. If you lie to me even once, I withdraw from the case immediately."
I sat behind my desk, fingers steepled. "You're establishing ground rules. I appreciate clarity."
"I mean it, Mr. Vitale. I won't be made complicit in perjury or witness tampering. My representation will be vigorous and within the bounds of legal ethics."
"Understood." I leaned forward slightly. "Ask your questions, counselor."
He went through them methodically. What happened that night. Who was present. What Matteo had witnessed. Why the security cameras malfunctioned. I answered truthfully—or at least, truthfully enough.
Yes, the Costello nephew had pulled a knife on our waitress. Yes, Matteo had intervened. Yes, the nephew's arm had been broken in the confrontation. No, the security cameras weren't actually malfunctioning—we'd simply chosen not to preserve footage that might be subpoenaed.
Emilio's pen scratched across his legal pad. He didn't look up. Didn't react. Just documented everything with the same mechanical precision.
"The witnesses," he said finally. "Why did they recant?"
"They were compensated for their inconvenience and chose to forget what they saw."
"You paid them off."
"I ensured they understood that testifying against me would be more costly than remaining silent. There's a difference."
"Not a legal one."
"Perhaps not. But I'm being honest, as you requested." I watched him process that. Watched the conflict play across his features before he buried it. "Does that trouble you, Mr. Rossi?"
"My personal feelings are irrelevant. I'm your attorney, not your priest."
"Diplomatic." I stood and walked around the desk, perching on the edge close to where he sat. Close enough that he had to tilt his head back to meet my eyes. "But I'm curious about your personal feelings nonetheless."
He swallowed. I watched his throat work. "Mr. Vitale—"
"Sandro," I corrected. "We're going to be working closely together. Formality seems excessive."
"Sandro." My name sounded good in his voice. Uncertain. Wary. "I need to maintain professional boundaries."
"Of course." I didn't move. "Tell me about your divorce."
His eyes widened. "That's not relevant to—"
"I know everything about you, Emilio. May I call you Emilio?
" I didn't wait for permission. "You graduated Harvard Law, top five percent of your class.
Married Marco Delgado in 2019. He cheated.
You filed in January. The divorce was finalized in April.
You're in debt—student loans, primarily, but also the settlement.
You're desperate to make partner at Sterling because you can't afford not to. "
Color rose in his cheeks. Anger or embarrassment, hard to tell. "You investigated me."
"I investigate everyone. Knowledge is the only currency that matters in my world." I leaned closer, into his space, watching him hold himself rigid. "You need this case, Emilio. Need the money and the career boost. That makes you useful to me. But it also makes you vulnerable."
"Is that a threat?"
"It's an observation. I don't threaten people I'm paying two hundred thousand dollars to defend me." I reached out, very slowly, and straightened his tie where it had gone slightly askew. He froze. Stopped breathing. "I'm simply ensuring we understand each other."
His voice came out rougher than before. "I understand that you're dangerous."
"Good." I stepped back, giving him space. "Danger is honest. Pretending otherwise would insult both our intelligences."
He stood, gathering his legal pad and briefcase with movements that were too quick, too jerky. Control slipping. "I should go. I'll prepare a defense strategy and send it to you by end of week."
"Emilio."
He stopped at the door. Didn't turn around.
"You did excellent work in court today. I want you to know I appreciate it."
"I'm doing my job."
"You're doing it exceptionally well. That's worth acknowledging." I returned to my desk, settling into my chair like a throne. "Same time next week. We'll review the strategy then."
He left without responding.
I sat alone in my office and thought about the way he'd reacted when I touched him. The way his pupils had dilated. The way he'd held himself so carefully still, like any movement might shatter whatever control he was clinging to.
Emilio Rossi was attracted to me. Hated himself for it, probably. But attraction was attraction, regardless of how inconvenient or inappropriate.
I could work with that.
I pulled up the background check my investigator had compiled. Read through it again, this time looking for different details. Where Emilio went when he wasn't working. Who he talked to. What he did with the hours between professional obligations.
He went home to his shitty studio apartment. Ate takeout. Worked late. Occasionally met friends for drinks but never stayed long. He was lonely and trying to hide it. Isolated by choice and circumstance.
Perfect.
My phone buzzed. Matteo asking how the meeting went. I ignored it and opened my laptop instead. Pulled up Emilio's financial records—the ones my people had acquired through means he'd probably consider illegal.
Student loans: $180,000. Credit card debt: $12,000. Divorce settlement: $30,000 paid, $20,000 still owed. Monthly income: barely enough to cover expenses.
He was drowning. One emergency away from bankruptcy. And I was his lifeline.
I made a note to have one of my shell companies pay off his smallest credit card. Make it look like a balance transfer he'd forgotten about. See if he noticed. See what he did if he did notice.
I was going to corrupt Emilio Rossi. Not quickly—that would be crude and ineffective. Slowly. Carefully. With precise applications of money and power and attention. Until he looked at me and saw not a monster but a solution. Not a client but something more complicated.
Until he chose me. Not because he had to, but because I'd shaped him into someone who wanted to.
The game had started in that courtroom. Emilio just didn't know it yet.
I returned to my work, reviewing the embezzlement evidence with half my attention while the other half remained fixed on the memory of Emilio's sharp intake of breath when I'd touched his tie.
This was going to be interesting.
And I had always appreciated a challenge worth my time.