Chapter 3 Emilio #2
I closed the folder and sat in my office watching the city wake up outside my window. People going to work. Living their normal lives. Not making catastrophic decisions that would probably destroy them.
I should withdraw from the case. Richard had given me this information as a warning and an out. I could cite ethical concerns. Conflict of interest. Anything. Just walk away before I became another name on that list.
My phone buzzed.
I looked down at the screen, already knowing somehow that it would be him.
Unknown number. But I knew.
I appreciate a man who knows when to run. See you next week, Emilio. Try not to think about me too much between now and then.
No signature. No explanation for how he got my personal cell number—the one I didn't give to clients, the one that wasn't on any business card.
But he had it anyway. Because of course he did. Because Sandro Vitale knew everything about me, and I apparently knew nothing about him except what he chose to reveal.
I stared at the message. Read it three times. Four.
I appreciate a man who knows when to run.
He'd watched me flee his office yesterday. Had seen through my professional composure to the fear and attraction churning underneath. And instead of being disappointed or angry, he was amused. Entertained by my retreat like it was all part of some game he was playing.
Try not to think about me too much between now and then.
Too late. I'd thought about almost nothing else since leaving Inferno. The way he'd looked at me. The casual invasion of my personal space. The slight smile when I'd gathered my things to leave. The cologne that I could still smell if I closed my eyes.
I was so fucked.
I should delete the message. Block the number. Maintain professional boundaries and treat him like any other client instead of like some dangerous addiction I was already craving.
I saved his contact instead. Labeled it simply: Sandro.
At 8 AM I went to the courthouse for a routine motion hearing on one of my divorce cases. The courthouse was busy—attorneys and clients and court personnel moving through the halls in that particular organized chaos that happened every morning.
I saw Marco before he saw me. He was standing outside one of the courtrooms talking to another ADA, both of them holding coffee and case files. For a moment I considered turning around, taking a different route to my courtroom. Avoiding the confrontation that was inevitable if he spotted me.
But that felt too much like running again. I'd done enough of that yesterday.
I kept walking, head up, projecting a confidence I didn't feel. Marco's gaze found me when I was maybe twenty feet away. I watched him make the same calculation I had—engage or avoid.
He chose engage.
"Emilio."
I stopped. Nodded. "Marco."
"We should talk. About Vitale. About what you're getting into."
"I'm in court in ten minutes. Maybe another time." I moved to step around him.
He shifted to block my path. Not aggressively, but enough to make his point.
"You're making a mistake. Everyone in the DA's office is talking about it.
They're building a file on you already. Photographs of you entering and leaving Vitale's club.
Records of your phone calls. They're going to use you to get to him. "
"Then they're going to be disappointed. I'm his attorney, not his accomplice. Everything I do is protected by attorney-client privilege."
"Emilio—"
"Move, Marco. I have a hearing."
For a second I thought he might actually try to physically stop me. His jaw worked like he was chewing on all the things he wanted to say. Finally he stepped aside.
"When this blows up in your face, don't come crying to me."
I walked past him without responding. Made it to my courtroom with two minutes to spare and a tension headache building behind my eyes.
The hearing was routine. The divorcing couple had agreed to everything in mediation; we just needed the judge's signature. I presented the settlement agreement, answered a few standard questions, and was out in fifteen minutes.
I spent the rest of the day at my office, working on other cases and trying not to think about the folder Richard had given me. Trying not to think about the text message on my phone. Trying not to think about seeing Sandro again next week.
I failed at all three.
At 6 PM I gave up on productivity and went home. Ordered Thai food I barely tasted. Sat on my couch with my laptop and did something I knew was stupid but couldn't stop myself from doing anyway.
I researched Sandro Vitale. Not the legal cases this time. The man himself.
Social media was sparse—he wasn't on Instagram or Facebook or Twitter, at least not publicly.
But there were photographs from charity events and business functions.
Society pages showing him at galas and fundraisers.
Always impeccably dressed. Always with someone beautiful on his arm—men and women both, no apparent preference.
I found a video from a business conference where he'd been on a panel about urban development.
Watched him speak for twenty minutes about zoning laws and property values with the same cold precision he'd used in his office.
He knew his subject matter completely. Commanded the room without raising his voice.
Devastating. That was the word for him. Devastatingly intelligent, devastatingly controlled, devastatingly beautiful in that sharp-edged way that made you want to cut yourself on him just to see if he'd bleed too.
I closed my laptop at midnight and took a shower hot enough to turn my skin red.
Stood under the spray thinking about Monday afternoon.
About walking back into Sandro's office and pretending I hadn't spent the last week obsessing over a man who was probably going to destroy my career and possibly my life.
Try not to think about me too much between now and then.
In bed, in the dark, I let myself admit the truth I'd been avoiding.
I wanted him. Wanted him in ways that had nothing to do with professional interest or legal strategy. Wanted those careful hands on me. Wanted to see if the control would crack if I pushed hard enough. Wanted to know what it would feel like to be the focus of all that intense attention.
It was stupid and self-destructive and completely inevitable.
I'd known it the moment I saw his photograph in that first case file. Had felt it in my gut when he'd straightened my tie and watched me struggle not to react. The attraction was there, undeniable and dangerous as hell.
The question was what I was going to do about it.
The answer, I suspected, was nothing. Because Sandro Vitale was a client and a criminal and a man who destroyed everyone who got too close to him. Because I had principles, even if they were currently drowning under debt and desperation. Because I was smarter than this.
Except I wasn't. Smart would have been declining the case. Smart would have been listening to Sarah and Marco and everyone else who'd warned me. Smart would have been running as far from Sandro Vitale as I could get.
Instead, I was lying in bed at 1 AM with his text message pulled up on my phone, reading it for the dozenth time like some lovesick teenager.
See you next week, Emilio.
My name in his voice. The memory of it made my cock twitch.
I was so completely fucked.
And the worst part—the part that scared me more than anything else—was that I was starting not to care.
Seven attorneys before me. Four disbarred, one in prison, one missing, one dead.
I was going to be number eight.
But first, I was going to see what it felt like to be seen by Alessandro Vitale. Really seen. The way he'd looked at me in his office like he was already planning how to take me apart.
I fell asleep with my phone in my hand and Sandro's message on the screen, dreaming of cedar and leather and cold dark eyes that missed nothing.
One week until our next meeting.
I was counting the days.