Chapter 5 Emilio
But I wasn't normal people. I was a desperate associate with a case that could make or break my career, and if that meant spending Friday night cross-referencing witness statements against crime scene photos, then that's what I'd do.
I spread the three witness depositions across my desk. All three had initially stated they saw Matteo DeLuca break Anthony Costello's arm. Then all three had recanted, claiming they'd been mistaken or hadn't seen clearly or misremembered the sequence of events, and hadn’t seen anything.
They were compensated for their inconvenience and chose to forget what they saw.
Sandro's words echoed in my head. He'd admitted to witness tampering with the same casual tone most people used to discuss traffic. No shame. No hesitation.
But something about these new depositions bothered me. The language was too similar. The recantations too perfectly coordinated. Like someone had given them a script.
I was making notes about the inconsistencies when someone knocked on my office door.
I froze. Security had left two hours ago. The building should be empty except for me. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stood and crossed to the door, trying to decide if opening it was brave or stupid.
"Who is it?"
"Your most demanding client."
Sandro's voice. Smooth and amused and coming from the other side of my office door at midnight on a Friday.
I opened it.
He stood in the hallway wearing a three-piece suit like he'd just come from some formal event. Charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, with a burgundy tie and those silver cufflinks that caught the light. He looked like power and money and danger wrapped in Italian wool.
"How did you—" I started.
"Get into the building after hours?" He smiled slightly. "I know the owner personally. We have mutual interests."
Of course he did. Of course Sandro Vitale had connections that let him walk into secure buildings at midnight like he owned them. Probably because he did own them, or owned the people who owned them.
"What are you doing here?" I stepped back instinctively as he walked past me into my office without waiting for invitation.
"I was in the neighborhood. Saw your lights on. Thought I'd check on your progress." His gaze swept across my desk, cataloguing the spread of depositions and legal pads covered in my handwriting. "Working late on a Friday night. Dedicated."
"I have a case to prepare."
"You have several cases to prepare. Yet you're spending your Friday night on mine." He picked up one of the depositions, scanning it with the same focused intensity he'd brought to our first meeting. "Interesting."
I should tell him to leave. Should maintain boundaries and professional distance and all the things I'd promised myself I'd do after our last meeting. Instead I stood there watching him read, hyperaware of how his presence made my small office feel even smaller.
"This witness is lying," Sandro said after a moment.
"They all recanted. You told me you paid them to—"
"Not about recanting. About the original statement." He tapped a specific paragraph. "Michael Torres claims he was standing at the south end of the bar when the altercation occurred. Says he had a clear view of Matteo and Anthony Costello from that position."
"Yes. I read the deposition."
"The south end of our bar doesn't exist." Sandro looked up at me. "Inferno's main bar runs east to west. There is no south end. Torres has never been to our club, or if he has, he certainly wasn't paying attention to the layout."
I grabbed the deposition and reread the section he'd indicated. He was right. The witness described a vantage point that was physically impossible based on the crime scene photos and club blueprints in the case file.
"He's lying about being there," I said slowly.
"He's lying about everything. The Costellos paid him to provide false testimony. They couldn't find actual witnesses who saw what they wanted, so they manufactured one."
I looked at the other two depositions with fresh eyes. Now that I was looking for it, the tells were obvious. Overly specific details about things that didn't matter. Vague descriptions of the actual assault. Inconsistencies in the timeline that didn't match the medical evidence.
"All three witnesses are fake," I said. "The Costellos planted them."
"Yes." Sandro set down the deposition and moved around my desk to where I was standing.
Too close. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—cedar and leather and something darker.
"Which means their case is built on manufactured evidence.
The real witnesses already recanted. These new ones are provably lying. The prosecution has nothing."
My mind was racing through the implications. "If I can prove the witnesses were paid to lie by the Costello family, the entire case collapses. It's not just reasonable doubt—it's prosecutorial misconduct."
"Exactly." Sandro leaned against my desk, arms crossed, watching me process. "Though proving it will be delicate. The Costellos are careful about paper trails."
"But not careful enough." I was already making notes, building the argument.
"Torres gives details about the bar layout that are verifiably false.
That's not a mistake—that's someone who was never actually there being told what to say by people who also weren't there.
If we can establish he's lying about his location, everything else he says becomes suspect. "
"You're very good at this." Sandro's voice had gone lower, warmer. "Watching you work is fascinating."
I looked up and found him closer than I'd realized. Somehow he'd moved into my space while I was focused on the depositions. Near enough that I could see the flecks of lighter brown in his dark eyes. Near enough that if I leaned forward even slightly, we'd be touching.
I stepped back. Put the desk between us. "You shouldn't be here."
"Where should I be?"
"Anywhere except my office at midnight on a Friday." I tried to sound firm. Professional. "This is inappropriate."
"Is it?" He straightened but didn't move away from my desk. Didn't give me back the space he'd claimed. "I'm discussing case strategy with my attorney. Seems entirely appropriate to me."
"During normal business hours. With scheduled appointments. Not—" I gestured vaguely at the empty office, the late hour, the way he'd appeared like some fever dream I couldn't shake. "Not like this."
"You prefer scheduled invasions of your personal space?" His smile was slight but devastating. "I'll keep that in mind."
Heat crawled up my neck. "Mr. Vitale—"
"Sandro. I thought we established this."
"Sandro." His name felt dangerous in my mouth. "You need to leave."
"Do I?" He walked around the desk toward me with that predator's grace, deliberate and unhurried. I backed up until my shoulders hit the wall. He stopped just short of touching me, one hand braced on the wall beside my head. "Or do you need me to leave because you want me to stay?"
I couldn't breathe. His proximity was suffocating and intoxicating in equal measure. This close, I could see the sharp line of his jaw, the cruel curve of his mouth, the intelligence burning in those dark eyes that missed nothing.
"I have professional boundaries," I managed.
"You have professional boundaries you'd very much like me to cross." He leaned in fractionally. Not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat of him. "You've been thinking about me all week. I know because I've been thinking about you too."
"This is—" Inappropriate. Unethical. Exactly what I wanted and couldn't admit. "This can't happen."
"Nothing's happening. I'm simply standing here having a conversation with my attorney." His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingered, then returned to my eyes. "Unless you'd like something to happen?"
Yes. God, yes. Every rational thought in my head was screaming at me to push him away, to maintain the distance that was already too compromised. But my body wasn't listening to rational thoughts. My body wanted to close the gap between us and find out if his mouth tasted as dangerous as it looked.
"I want you to leave," I said, and we both knew I was lying.
"Liar." But he stepped back, giving me space I didn't actually want. "I'm having dinner tomorrow night. Eight o'clock. Join me."
"I can't—"
"You can. We'll discuss the case. Review the witness issues. Completely professional." His smile said nothing about this was professional. "I'll send a car for you at seven-thirty."
"I didn't agree to this."
"You will." He straightened his tie, which hadn't been askew. "You're curious, Emilio. About me. About what happens if you say yes instead of running. Tomorrow night you'll find out."
"And if I don't get in the car?"
"Then I'll know you're smarter than I gave you credit for." He moved toward the door, paused with his hand on the knob. "But you'll get in the car. Because you want to see where this goes just as much as I do."
He left before I could argue. I stood against the wall listening to his footsteps fade down the hallway, listening to the distant sound of the elevator, listening to my own ragged breathing in the silence he'd left behind.
I was shaking. Actually trembling like some Victorian maiden who'd been compromised by a rake. Except I hadn't been compromised—I'd just been asked to dinner. A professional dinner to discuss case strategy. Nothing inappropriate had happened.
Except everything about the last fifteen minutes had been inappropriate. The way he'd appeared uninvited. The way he'd invaded my space and backed me against a wall. The way he'd looked at me like he knew exactly what I was thinking and found it amusing.
The way I'd wanted him to kiss me so badly I'd almost closed the distance myself.
I returned to my desk on legs that felt unsteady. Tried to focus on the depositions, on the case, on anything except the memory of Sandro's body heat and cedar-and-leather scent. Failed completely.
My phone buzzed.