Chapter 6 Sandro #2
"You were trained to defend innocent people. I'm not innocent." I finished my oyster. "Does that bother you? Knowing I'm exactly what everyone says I am?"
He was quiet for a moment. "Yes and no."
"Explain."
"Yes, it bothers me that you've admitted to witness tampering and probably a dozen other crimes. No, it doesn't bother me enough to withdraw from the case." He met my eyes. "I don't know what that says about me."
"It says you're practical. Idealism doesn't pay student loans."
"It says I'm compromised."
"We're all compromised in our own ways, Emilio.
The only difference is whether we admit it.
" The waiter returned with our second course—crudo with citrus and herbs.
I waited until he'd left before continuing.
"You think I've corrupted you. That representing me makes you complicit in whatever crimes you imagine I've committed. "
"Haven't you? Aren't I?"
"I've given you an opportunity to use your considerable talents for a client who actually appreciates them. As for complicity—you're my attorney. Everything you do is protected by privilege. You're not complicit in my actions any more than a doctor is complicit in his patient's lifestyle choices."
"That's a convenient rationalization."
"It's also true." I tried the crudo. Perfect, as expected. "Tell me what you really want, Emilio. Not what you think you should want. What you actually want."
He drank more wine. Dutch courage, probably. "That's a dangerous question."
"I like dangerous questions. They get honest answers.
" I watched him struggle with whether to answer.
Watched the internal battle play out across his features.
"You want financial security. You want to make partner at Sterling.
You want respect from your colleagues. All of that's surface level. What do you want underneath?"
"I want..." He stopped. Started again. "I want to matter. To someone. To something. I spent six years in a marriage where I was an afterthought. A career where I'm undervalued. I want to be seen as something other than expendable."
The honesty surprised me. Raw and unfiltered in a way I hadn't expected from someone so careful with his words.
"You matter to me," I said quietly. "Professionally and personally. I see you exactly as you are, Emilio. Brilliant. Principled even when those principles are inconvenient. Beautiful in ways you don't seem to recognize. I see all of it."
His breath caught. Visible even in the low lighting of the restaurant. "Sandro—"
"You asked what this is. What we're doing here.
" I reached across the table and caught his hand before he could pull away.
His palm was warm, slightly damp with nervous sweat.
"I'm showing you what it's like to be seen.
To be valued. To have someone's complete attention focused on you instead of looking past you to something else. "
"This is manipulation." But he didn't pull his hand away. "You're very good at it."
"Yes to both. But that doesn't make it less real." I ran my thumb across his knuckles, watching his eyes darken. "I'm manipulating you toward something you already want. That's not the same as forcing you toward something you don't."
"And what do I want?"
"Me. This. The attention and the money and the validation that you deserve better than what you've been settling for." I released his hand. "The question is whether you're brave enough to admit it."
The waiter returned with our main course, and we fell into easier conversation while eating. The case. Legal strategy. Witness impeachment techniques. All perfectly professional topics that let us both pretend the previous exchange hadn't happened.
But I could see the way Emilio's attention kept drifting to my hands. My mouth. The way he leaned imperceptibly closer when I spoke. All the small tells of someone fighting attraction and losing.
By dessert—a deconstructed tiramisu that was almost too beautiful to eat—the tension between us had wound so tight I could feel it humming in the air.
"I should go," Emilio said, even as he reached for his wine glass instead of standing. "It's late."
"It's barely ten. Stay." I caught the waiter's attention. "Grappa. Two glasses."
"I've had enough to drink."
"One more won't hurt. Unless you don't trust yourself around me when you're relaxed?" I smiled slightly. "Is that it, Emilio? You're afraid of what you might do if you let your guard down?"
"I'm afraid of what you might do."
"I would never do anything you didn't want me to do." I accepted the grappa from the waiter and slid one glass to Emilio. "But I think we both know that's not actually what you're afraid of. You're afraid you'll want me to do things you know you shouldn't want."
He picked up the grappa and downed it in one swallow instead of sipping. "You're very sure of yourself."
"I'm very good at reading people. It's a necessary skill in my world." I sipped my own grappa slowly. "You've been hard since the oysters. Trying to hide it, but I noticed. The way you shifted in your seat. The way you crossed your legs. All very subtle, but I pay attention to details."
Color flooded his face. "Jesus Christ."
"It's nothing to be embarrassed about. Attraction is involuntary.
What we do about it is choice." I set down my glass.
"I'd like to take you somewhere private.
Not for sex—you're not ready for that yet.
But somewhere we can talk without an audience.
Somewhere you can stop performing and just be honest about what you want. "
"And where is that?"
"My penthouse. Ten minutes from here. We'll talk. Have another drink. See where the conversation goes." I leaned forward. "No pressure. No expectations. Just two people getting to know each other without pretense."
"That's a terrible idea."
"Probably. But you're going to say yes anyway. Come home with me, Emilio. Let me show you what it's like to stop running from what you want."
He should have refused. Should have insisted on going home alone, maintaining boundaries, all the things his professional ethics demanded. I could see him running through the arguments, weighing the risks.
But I could also see the moment he decided to say yes.
"Just talking," he said finally. "Nothing else."
"Just talking," I agreed, lying smoothly.
We both knew where this was heading. The only question was how long he'd pretend otherwise.
Thomas was waiting with the car when we exited the restaurant. Emilio hesitated before getting in, one last chance to change his mind and choose safety over curiosity.
He got in.
I slid into the seat beside him, close enough that our thighs touched. He didn't move away. Progress.
The drive to my penthouse took eight minutes. Emilio spent them staring out the window, hands clasped in his lap, breathing too carefully. Building up courage or talking himself out of what came next. Possibly both.
"Relax," I said quietly. "I meant what I said. No pressure. No expectations."
"You say that, but everything about this has expectations built into it." He finally looked at me. "You bought me an expensive dinner. You're taking me to your home. You've been touching me all evening in ways that are deliberately intimate. This isn't just talking."
"You're right. It's seduction. I'm seducing you." I touched his face, just my fingertips against his jaw. Watched his eyes close briefly. "But seduction only works if both parties want it. Do you want this, Emilio?"
"I don't know." His voice was barely audible. "I should say no. Should get out of this car and go home and pretend tonight never happened."
"But you won't."
"No. I won't." He opened his eyes. "Because you're right. I want to see where this goes. Even if it destroys me."
"I won't destroy you." I traced his lower lip with my thumb. Felt him tremble. "I'm going to build you into something better than what you are now. Stronger. More confident. Exactly what you were meant to be."
"That sounds like destruction with better marketing."
"Perhaps." I dropped my hand as the car pulled up to my building. "But you'll look beautiful in the ruins either way."
The penthouse occupied the entire top floor. Glass and steel and carefully curated modern art that cost more than most people's houses. I watched Emilio take it in—the space, the view, the wealth on casual display.
"This is obscene," he said finally.
"This is success." I poured us both scotch from the bar. "I worked for everything you see here. Built it from nothing through intelligence and careful strategy. No one gave me anything."
"Except the criminal empire your father left you."
I smiled. "I see you've been doing your research."
"I researched my client. That's due diligence, not stalking." He accepted the scotch but didn't drink. "Your father was Antonio Vitale. He ran organized crime in New York for thirty years before dying of a heart attack. You inherited his operations along with his enemies and his reputation."
"Very thorough. What else did you learn?"
"That you're more dangerous than your father ever was. He ruled through violence. You rule through intelligence. People fear your mind more than your muscle."
"Fear is useful. But loyalty is better." I gestured to the windows. "Come see the view."
He followed me to the floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking Manhattan. The city spread out below us, millions of lights in the darkness. All those people living their small lives, never knowing that men like me shaped their world from above.
"It's beautiful," Emilio admitted.
"It's power." I stood behind him, close enough that he could feel my body heat but not quite touching. "Every light down there represents someone whose life I could change with a phone call. That's what real power looks like, Emilio. The ability to reshape reality through influence and capital."
"That's what corruption looks like."