Chapter 6 Sandro
I ARRIVED AT Marea thirty minutes early because preparation was the difference between control and chaos.
The restaurant knew me well enough that they'd already set up my preferred table—corner booth with a view of the entrance, positioned so my back was never to the door.
Old habits from a childhood spent watching my father conduct business over expensive meals while teaching me that vulnerability got you killed.
The ma?tre d' confirmed the arrangements with the kind of deference money and reputation bought. Private section. No interruptions unless I signaled. Wine already breathing. Everything exactly as I'd specified.
Now I just had to wait and see if Emilio would actually show.
I was ninety-three percent certain he would.
He'd been thinking about me all week—my surveillance confirmed it.
Late nights at the office when he should have been sleeping.
Research into my background that went well beyond case preparation.
The way he'd stared at his phone after each text I sent, reading them multiple times before responding or not responding at all.
But there was always that seven percent chance his principles would win out over his curiosity. That he'd cancel at the last minute or simply not show up. It would be disappointing but not catastrophic. I had contingencies.
Though I found myself hoping I wouldn't need them.
At 7:52 PM, my phone buzzed. Text from Thomas, my driver.
Picked up package. En route. ETA 6 minutes.
Package. Like Emilio was cargo instead of a person. I supposed in some ways he was—a valuable acquisition I was in the process of securing. But the terminology felt reductive for what I was actually doing.
Which was dangerous thinking. Emilio Rossi was a means to an end. A brilliant attorney I needed loyal and compromised. The fact that he was also beautiful and responsive and exactly the kind of challenge I found irresistible didn't change his fundamental purpose.
I reminded myself of this while settling the bill in advance.
Everything paid for, no interruptions when the check came.
I'd already arranged for the wine to be breathing at our table—a Barolo that cost $800 per bottle and tasted like dark fruit and sin.
Emilio would probably choke when he saw the price if he looked it up later, but that was part of the point.
Small demonstrations of the wealth I could share if he proved worthy.
At 7:57, I left my table and positioned myself at the restaurant's entrance. Waited with the kind of patience I'd cultivated over years of watching my father conduct business. Preparation was everything. First impressions mattered.
At 7:58, the black car pulled up outside.
I watched through the glass as Emilio emerged, cataloguing details with the same precision I'd applied at the courthouse.
The navy suit—good choice. Excellent tailoring that emphasized his lean build without being overtly sexual.
Conservative enough for a business dinner.
Expensive enough to show he understood the venue's requirements.
His hair was styled but not overly so. Clean-shaven. He moved toward the entrance with careful deliberation, like a man walking into something he knew might destroy him.
I smiled when he saw me. Let him see the satisfaction in my expression. Let him know I'd been waiting for him specifically.
"Emilio. Punctual. I appreciate that in a man."
"I'm always on time," he said, hands shoved in his pockets. Nervous. Trying not to show it.
"I know. I've been paying attention." I offered my arm like we were attending a formal event instead of just having dinner. A deliberate gesture—intimate, old-fashioned, claiming. "Shall we?"
I watched the internal battle play across his features. Saw him weigh whether accepting my arm crossed some professional line. Saw him decide it didn't matter because he'd already crossed so many others.
He took my arm.
The contact sent satisfaction through my chest. Small victories built into larger ones. He was choosing this. Choosing me. One decision at a time.
I led him into the restaurant, through the main dining room to our private booth in the corner.
"Please. Sit." I gestured to the seat across from me.
He slid into the booth with movements that were just slightly too careful. Hyperaware of the space, of me, of every choice he was making. I could practically see him cataloguing exit strategies even as he settled into place.
"Wine?" I offered, already pouring his glass.
"I probably shouldn't drink while discussing case strategy."
"One glass won't impair your judgment. And we're not exclusively discussing the case." I slid the wine across the table. "Consider this a getting-to-know-you dinner. Attorney and client building rapport."
"Is that what this is?" He took the glass but didn't drink. "Building rapport?"
"Among other things." I leaned back, studying him openly. Let him see me looking. Let him feel the weight of my attention. "You came. I wasn't entirely certain you would."
"I almost didn't." Honesty, surprisingly. Most people lied when nervous. "This feels inappropriate."
"Why?" I sipped my wine. "I'm having dinner with my attorney. Discussing my case. Nothing inappropriate about that."
"The way you're looking at me is inappropriate."
I smiled. "How am I looking at you?"
His jaw tightened. Color rose in his cheeks—subtle, but I'd been watching for it. "Like I'm something you're planning to acquire."
"That's because you are." No point in lying when the truth was so much more effective. "I appreciate honesty, Emilio. Let me be honest with you. I find you attractive. Professionally and personally. I'd like to explore both dimensions of that attraction. Does that make you uncomfortable?"
He set down his wine glass with slightly too much force. "I'm your attorney."
"Yes."
"There are ethical rules about attorneys sleeping with clients."
"We're not sleeping together." I paused deliberately. "Yet."
"Yet." He repeated it like the word was foreign. "You're very confident."
"I'm observant. You want me. You've wanted me since that first day in court, and you hate yourself for it. But the wanting doesn't go away just because you disapprove of it." I leaned forward. "So here we are. Having dinner. Acknowledging the attraction instead of pretending it doesn't exist."
"And then what?" His voice had gone rough. "We acknowledge it and move on? Maintain professional boundaries like adults?"
"Or we acknowledge it and decide what we want to do about it." I watched his throat work as he swallowed. Watched his pupils dilate. All the physical tells of arousal he couldn't quite control. "I'm a patient man, Emilio. I can wait for you to decide what you want. But I think you already know."
The waiter appeared before he could respond, which was probably fortunate for both of us. I ordered for us both—the tasting menu, which would keep us here for at least two hours—and waited until we were alone again before continuing.
"Tell me about your divorce," I said.
His eyes widened. "That's not relevant to—"
"Humor me. I want to understand you. How you think. What drives you." I sipped my wine. "You married Marco Delgado in 2019. Divorced in April of this year. What happened?"
For a moment I thought he'd refuse to answer. Then he sighed and picked up his wine glass, taking a long drink before responding.
"He cheated. Multiple times. I found out and filed immediately." The words were clipped. Professional. Like he was reciting facts instead of describing the destruction of his marriage. "We'd been growing apart for a while. The infidelity was just the final confirmation that we didn't work."
"Did you love him?"
"I thought I did. Probably I loved the idea of him more than the reality." He looked at me directly. "Why does this matter to you?"
"Because I want to know if you're carrying a torch for your ex-husband. If Marco Delgado is competition I need to account for."
"He's not competition. We're done. Completely."
"Good." I signaled the waiter, who appeared with our first course. Oysters on ice, garnished with mignonette and lemon. "Then I don't need to destroy his career to eliminate him as an obstacle."
Emilio stared at me. "You're joking."
"I rarely joke about removing obstacles." I selected an oyster and offered it to him. "Try this. They're from Prince Edward Island. Supposedly the best in the world."
He took the oyster, our fingers brushing in the exchange. I felt him tense at the contact. Watched him tip his head back and swallow, throat working, lips parting. It was almost obscene in its innocence.
"It's good," he said when he'd finished.
"Everything here is good. I don't settle for less than exceptional." I prepared my own oyster. "Speaking of which. The witness depositions. You found the discrepancies?"
"The bar layout issue, yes. Torres couldn't possibly have seen what he claims from the position he described." Emilio seemed relieved to shift to professional topics. "I've started building a defense strategy around proving the Costello family manufactured evidence."
"Risky. The Costellos have resources and connections. Coming after them directly could have consequences."
"I'm aware. But if we can prove prosecutorial misconduct, the case gets dismissed with prejudice.
They can't bring charges again." He leaned forward, animated now that we were discussing legal strategy.
"We just need to establish that Torres and the other two witnesses were paid to lie.
Bank records, communications, anything that proves coordination. "
"My investigators are working on that. The Costellos are careful, but everyone makes mistakes eventually." I watched him think through the problem, watched his brilliant mind work. It was arousing in its own way. "You're very good at this. Building cases. Finding weaknesses."
"It's what I was trained for."