Chapter 3 Emilio
I know everything about you, Emilio.
Sandro Vitale had said it so casually. Like having my entire life investigated was simply due diligence. Like knowing about my divorce and my debt and my desperation was just good business practice.
That makes you useful to me. But it also makes you vulnerable.
I'd run. That's what I'd done. Gathered my things and fled his office like a coward, and he'd let me go with that small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. Like he'd expected it. Like watching me retreat was exactly the reaction he'd wanted.
My tie felt too tight. The same tie he'd straightened with those long fingers, leaning into my space until I could smell his cologne—something expensive and subtle that probably cost more per bottle than my rent. Cedar and leather and something darker I couldn't name.
I loosened the knot and tried to breathe normally.
This was fine. This was just a client meeting. Establishing ground rules. Getting information for the defense. Everything had been perfectly professional except for the part where he'd touched me and I'd stopped breathing like some virginal protagonist in a Victorian novel.
Except for the part where I'd wanted him to touch me again.
"Fuck," I said to my empty car.
I drove home on autopilot, navigating rush hour traffic without really seeing it.
My apartment building looked even more depressing than usual in the afternoon light.
Peeling paint on the exterior. A broken window on the second floor that the landlord kept promising to fix.
The kind of place you lived when you had no other options.
Inside my studio, I dropped my briefcase and stood in the middle of the room trying to decide what to do with myself. It was 4:15 PM. Too early for dinner. Too late to justify going back to the office. Too wired to sleep.
I pulled out my laptop and opened the case file again. Reread everything with fresh eyes, looking for details I'd missed. The police reports. The witness statements—before and after they'd recanted. The medical records showing the compound fracture in the Costello nephew's arm.
They were compensated for their inconvenience and chose to forget what they saw.
Sandro had admitted to witness tampering with the same calm tone most people used to discuss the weather. No shame. No hesitation. Just the facts of what had happened, delivered with perfect honesty because I'd demanded it.
I should have been horrified. Should have withdrawn from the case immediately. Should have called the bar association and reported the admission.
Instead, I was sitting in my apartment getting hard thinking about the way he'd looked at me. The way he'd invaded my space deliberately, watching to see if I'd back down. Testing me. Measuring my reactions like data to be analyzed and used.
Knowledge is the only currency that matters in my world.
My phone rang. I almost didn't answer when I saw the caller ID, but avoiding Marco indefinitely wasn't a viable strategy.
"What?" I said instead of hello.
"Charming as always." Marco's voice carried that particular tone he used when he was about to say something he thought was for my own good. "I heard you went to court this morning. Representing Vitale at his bail hearing."
"News travels fast."
"It's a small legal community. Everyone's talking about it. About you."
I pinched the bridge of my nose. "I don't have time for this, Marco."
"Make time. I'm trying to help you understand what you're getting into."
"You already told me what you think. Multiple times. I'm taking the case anyway."
Silence on the other end. Then: "You're going to regret this."
"Maybe. But it'll be my regret, not yours. We're divorced, remember? You don't get to have opinions about my career anymore."
"This isn't about us," Marco said, frustration bleeding into his voice. "This is about you throwing away everything you've worked for. Do you know what happens to lawyers who get too close to people like Vitale? They either end up disbarred or dead, Emilio. There's no third option."
"I'm hanging up now."
"Wait—"
I ended the call and turned my phone face-down on the coffee table. Stared at it like it might ring again. When it didn't, I felt both relieved and strangely disappointed.
Everyone wanted to save me from myself. Sarah. Marco. Probably Richard too, in his own calculating way. They all thought I was making a terrible mistake.
They were right.
But I was making it anyway.
I worked through the evening, making notes and drafting preliminary motions. At 11 PM I ordered takeout from the Chinese place down the block. At 1 AM I was still awake, cross-referencing case law and building defense strategies on three hours of sleep and too much coffee.
At 3 AM I finally admitted I wasn't going to sleep and went to the office instead.
The building was empty at that hour. Security waved me through with barely a glance—they were used to associates keeping ridiculous hours. I rode the elevator to the fourteenth floor and let myself into my small office with a view of a brick wall.
My desk was covered in active case files. The personal injury suit. A contract dispute. Two divorces and a DUI. The kind of work that paid bills but didn't build careers. I pushed them aside and spread out the Vitale materials.
I worked until the sun came up, until my eyes burned and my back ached from hunching over my desk. Built a defense strategy that assumed the prosecution would have nothing solid. Prepared for witness impeachment. Researched jury selection criteria for assault cases.
At 6:30 AM, my office phone rang. Internal extension. Richard's secretary.
"Mr. Rossi? Mr. Sterling would like to see you in his office when you have a moment."
A moment. That meant now. I gathered my notes and took the elevator two floors up to the executive level where the senior partners had their corner offices with views of the city.
Richard was already at his desk despite the early hour, reviewing something on his computer. He gestured for me to sit without looking up.
I waited.
After thirty seconds that felt like thirty minutes, he closed his laptop and focused on me. Really looked at me, assessing in that way senior partners did when they were deciding whether an associate was worth their time.
"You look like hell," he said finally.
"I've been working."
"I can see that." He pulled a thick folder from his desk drawer and slid it across the polished surface. "Background information on your client. Compiled by our investigator. You should read it."
I picked up the folder. It was heavier than the case file. "I've already reviewed—"
"Not the public records. The real background. Who he is, what he's done, why you should be very careful about how deep you get into this case." Richard's expression was unreadable. "I'm not going to lecture you. You're an adult. You made your choice. But you should know what you're choosing."
I tucked the folder under my arm. "Thank you."
"The preliminary hearing went well, by the way. Morrison's clerk mentioned your arguments were impressive. Keep that up."
I left before he could say anything else. Took the folder back to my office and locked the door. Sat at my desk with my hands on the manila cover and tried to decide if I wanted to open it.
I knew what would be inside. Evidence of the things Sandro had admitted and the things he'd left unsaid. Proof that he was exactly as dangerous as everyone kept warning me he was.
I opened it anyway.
The investigator had been thorough. Every arrest was documented with the full police report—not the sanitized versions available to the public, but the originals with all the details. The charges. The allegations. The evidence that had mysteriously disappeared or become inadmissible before trial.
Five arrests over ten years. I'd known that already. What I hadn't known were the specifics.
2017: Witness intimidation. Federal charges related to a RICO investigation. Three witnesses who were supposed to testify against Vitale's organization suddenly developed amnesia. Charges dropped due to lack of evidence.
2019: Conspiracy to commit murder. A rival businessman was killed in what police suspected was a contract hit. Evidence pointed to Sandro ordering it. The evidence disappeared from the police lockup. No witnesses came forward. Case closed as unsolved.
2021: Racketeering. Part of a broader federal investigation into organized crime. Eighteen months of investigation, hundreds of hours of wiretaps, dozens of witnesses interviewed. The case fell apart when the lead investigator was caught fabricating evidence. Everything thrown out. Sandro walked.
2023: Money laundering. Financial records showed suspicious transactions through shell companies. The accountant who'd provided the records was found dead three weeks before trial. Ruled a suicide. Charges dismissed.
And now, 2025: Assault. Matteo DeLuca breaking a man's arm in what was definitely excessive force disguised as self-defense.
I read through each case twice. The pattern was clear. Evidence disappeared. Witnesses recanted or died. Prosecutors found their cases collapsing from the inside.
But it was the last page that made my stomach turn.
A list of attorneys who'd previously represented Sandro Vitale. Seven names. Next to each name, notes about what had happened to them after.
Vincent Calabrese - Disbarred for witness tampering (2025)
Holly Fry - Disbarred for falsifying evidence (2023)
Rebecca Thorn - Resigned from practice, whereabouts unknown (2021)
David Wright - Convicted of obstruction of justice, currently serving 7 years (2019)
Anthony Rizzo - Disbarred for ethical violations (2017)
Jennifer Cole - Suspended indefinitely, under investigation (2016)
Alexandra Shelley - Deceased, car accident (2015)
Seven attorneys. Four disbarred. One in prison. One missing. One dead.
And here I was, attorney number eight.