Chapter 7 Emilio
I SPENT SUNDAY and Monday trying to convince myself I wouldn't show up to Tuesday's meeting.
Sunday I worked from home, reviewing case files and pretending I wasn't replaying Saturday night on an endless loop.
The dinner. The wine. The way Sandro had looked at me across the table like I was something he planned to acquire.
The kisses against the window that had left me harder than I'd been in years.
The way he'd sent me home instead of finishing what we'd started.
Monday I went to the office early, buried myself in other cases, and managed to go three entire hours without thinking about the feeling of Sandro's hands in my hair. A personal record, considering I'd spent the previous twenty-four hours thinking about almost nothing else.
My phone buzzed at 11 AM. Text from Sandro.
Still planning to see you tomorrow. 2 PM. Don't be late.
No question about whether I'd show. Just the assumption that I would. The arrogance should have annoyed me. Instead, my cock stirred at the casual dominance in those seven words.
I was so fucked.
I typed back: I'll be there.
Sent it before I could overthink it. Before I could write something professional and distant that would fool exactly no one about what had happened between us.
His response came immediately: Good. I've been thinking about Saturday.
My heart kicked against my ribs. I stared at the message, trying to decide how to respond. Whether to acknowledge what had happened or pretend it hadn't. Whether to maintain professional boundaries that were already so compromised they barely existed.
I went with honesty: So have I.
Three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
I wanted to keep you. Still do. Tuesday we'll discuss whether that's something you want too.
I set my phone face-down on my desk and tried to focus on the contract dispute I was supposed to be reviewing. Failed completely. Read the same paragraph six times without absorbing a single word.
I wanted to keep you.
Not fuck you. Not sleep with you. Keep you. Like I was something to be acquired and possessed. Like Saturday night had been the opening move in a game I didn't know the rules to but was already losing.
The worst part was how much the idea appealed to me. Being kept. Being owned. Being the focus of all that intense attention instead of being overlooked and undervalued.
I was definitely fucked.
Tuesday morning I woke at 6 AM from dreams that left me hard and aching. Sandro's hands on me. Sandro's mouth. Sandro bending me over that expensive desk in his office and—
I took a cold shower that didn't help. Dressed in my best suit—charcoal gray, the one that fit perfectly and made me look competent and professional. Armor against whatever was coming.
At the office, I couldn't focus. Reviewed the Vitale case files for the dozenth time. Made notes about trial strategy and witness impeachment. Anything to distract from the fact that in six hours I'd see him again and have to decide what I wanted.
Except I already knew what I wanted. I'd known since Saturday night when he'd kissed me like he was trying to consume me. Known since Friday when he'd backed me against my office wall and looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
I wanted him. Wanted this. Wanted to see where it went even if the destination was my complete destruction.
At 1 PM I told my secretary I had an offsite meeting and wouldn't be back until late. She didn't ask questions. Associates had offsite meetings all the time.
The drive to Inferno took forty minutes through midday traffic. My car made that concerning rattling noise it had been making for the past month. I'd been meaning to get it looked at but kept putting it off because I couldn't afford the repair bill.
I parked in Inferno's lot at 1:53 PM. Sat in my car trying to compose myself. Trying to remember I was here for a professional meeting about case strategy, not to finish what we'd started Saturday night.
The lie was so transparent I almost laughed.
At 1:59 I walked through Inferno's entrance. The club was closed—wouldn't open until evening—but security recognized me and waved me through. I took the elevator to the second floor where Sandro's office occupied a corner with views of the main floor below.
The door was open.
He was standing at the window, hands in his pockets, looking down at the empty club. He'd removed his suit jacket. White shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Silver cufflinks catching the light. He looked devastating and dangerous and exactly like every fantasy I'd had since Saturday.
"Punctual as always," he said without turning around. "Come in. Close the door."
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The click of the lock felt significant. Final.
"Sit." He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk without looking at me.
I sat. Set my briefcase beside the chair and pulled out my legal pad. Tried to project professional competence while my heart raced and my palms sweated.
Sandro turned from the window. His gaze traveled over me slowly—deliberate assessment, cataloguing every detail. The suit. The tie. The way I was gripping my pen too tightly.
"You look good," he said finally. "Nervous, but good."
"I'm not nervous."
"Liar." He crossed to his desk and perched on the edge, close to where I sat. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. "You've been thinking about Saturday. About what happened. What it means."
"I've been thinking about the case." The lie was automatic and unconvincing.
"Have you." It wasn't a question. "Tell me about the case, then. What brilliant strategies have you developed since we last spoke?"
I forced myself to focus on the legal pad. On the notes I'd actually made about trial preparation. "The prosecution's case relies heavily on the three witnesses—Torres, Williams, and Brennan. All claiming they saw the assault. All with statements that contradict the physical evidence."
"We've established they're lying. What's your strategy for proving it?"
"Cross-examination. Get them to commit to specific details under oath.
Then demonstrate those details are impossible.
" I flipped through my notes. "Torres claims he was at the south end of the bar.
We'll show the bar doesn't have a south end.
Williams says he saw Matteo strike first. Medical evidence shows defensive wounds on Matteo's hands consistent with disarming someone.
Brennan claims the fight lasted two minutes.
Witness statements from your actual employees say thirty seconds maximum. "
"Good. Methodical." Sandro reached out and took the legal pad from my hands. Set it on the desk behind him. "Now talk to me about what you've really been thinking about since Saturday."
My mouth went dry. "Sandro—"
"I sent you home that night. Gave you time to think. To decide what you want." He leaned forward slightly. Not touching me, but close enough that I could feel his body heat. "Have you decided?"
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"The truth. Are you here because you want to be? Or because you're afraid of what happens if you withdraw from the case?"
"Both." The honesty surprised me. "I want to be here. I also know I shouldn't want that. The two things exist simultaneously."
"Why shouldn't you want it?"
"Because you're my client. Because this is unethical. Because everyone who cares about me has warned me that getting involved with you will destroy my career." I met his eyes. "Because I know you're dangerous and I want you anyway."
He smiled. Slow and satisfied. "There it is. Honesty. I appreciate that, Emilio."
"What do you want from me?" The question came out rougher than I intended. "Really. What is this?"
"I want you. In every way that entails." He reached out and traced my jaw with his fingertips. Light touch, barely there, but it made my breath catch. "I want you in my bed. I want your brilliant mind working for me. I want your loyalty. Your trust. Eventually, I want all of you."
"That's not how attorney-client relationships work."
"We stopped being just attorney and client the moment you kissed me back on Saturday." His hand slid to the back of my neck. Warm and possessive. "The question is whether you're brave enough to admit it."
"This is insane. We barely know each other."
"I know you're brilliant and desperate and attracted to danger. You know I'm exactly the kind of man you should run from but can't seem to resist. That's enough to start with." He stood, pulling me up with him. "The rest we'll figure out as we go."
He kissed me before I could argue. Hard and claiming and exactly what I'd been craving since Saturday. I responded without thinking, without weighing consequences, without any of the caution I should have been exercising.
His tongue swept into my mouth and I moaned against him. He backed me against the desk, hands on my hips, holding me in place while he took exactly what he wanted. I let him. Gave him everything he was demanding and more.
When he finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard.
"We have work to do," he said, voice rougher than before. "But later—tonight—we finish this. Come to my estate after we're done here. Bring your laptop. We'll review the financial records and then..." He smiled. "We'll see where the evening goes."
"Sandro—"
"Say yes, Emilio. Stop fighting what you want and just say yes."
I should have said no. Should have maintained boundaries and professional distance and all the things my ethics demanded. Should have withdrawn from the case before this went any further.
"Yes," I said instead.
Satisfaction flared in his eyes. "Good. Now sit. We have actual case strategy to discuss before I'm too distracted to think."
I returned to my chair on shaking legs. Picked up my legal pad with hands that weren't quite steady. Tried to focus on the legal issues instead of the taste of him still on my lips.