Chapter 9 Emilio
I WOKE TO sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows and the unfamiliar weight of an arm across my waist. For a disoriented moment I didn't know where I was.
Then memory crashed back—Sandro's estate, the financial records, the bedroom with its obscene luxury, everything that had happened after we'd stopped pretending to work.
Oh God.
I'd slept with my client. My extremely dangerous, probably criminal, definitely manipulative client who was currently pressed against my back like he had every right to be there.
I should have panicked. Should have extracted myself carefully and gotten dressed and called a car and fled before he woke up. Should have done any number of things that would have been smart and professional and ethical.
Instead I lay there feeling his breath against my neck and thinking about how good last night had been. How thoroughly he'd taken me apart. How I'd begged for it and meant every desperate word.
"You're thinking too loudly." Sandro's voice was rough with sleep. "I can practically hear your ethical crisis from here."
"I'm not having an ethical crisis."
"Liar." His arm tightened around my waist. Pulled me closer against him. "You're cataloguing all the ways you've compromised yourself and trying to figure out how to minimize the damage."
He wasn't wrong. I'd spent the last five minutes mentally reviewing the ethics rules about attorney-client relationships and coming up empty on justifications for what we'd done.
"I should go," I said.
"You should. But you won't. Not yet." He kissed my shoulder. "Stay for breakfast. Then I'll have Thomas take you home."
"Sandro—"
"Just breakfast, Emilio. We can have our ethical crisis over coffee and something more substantial than regret." He released me and sat up. Completely unselfconscious in his nudity, looking devastating even with sleep-mussed hair. "Come on. I make excellent pancakes."
"You make pancakes." I couldn't picture it. Sandro Vitale in a kitchen, cooking breakfast like a normal person instead of the dangerous criminal he actually was.
"I'm full of surprises." He pulled on pajama pants that probably cost more than my rent and tossed me a t-shirt. "Wear this. Your clothes from last night are... not wearable."
I looked at where our clothes were scattered across the floor. My button-down was missing several buttons. My jeans were inside-out. Evidence of how frantically we'd undressed each other.
Heat crawled up my neck. I pulled on the t-shirt—his, smelling like cedar and expensive detergent—and followed him downstairs to a kitchen that belonged in a design magazine.
He wasn't lying about the pancakes. I sat at the island watching him move around the kitchen with surprising competence, mixing batter and heating a griddle while coffee brewed in a machine that probably cost more than the repairs on my car.
"Where did you learn to cook?" I asked.
"My father's housekeeper. She thought I should know how to do at least one normal thing." He poured batter onto the griddle with practiced efficiency. "She was probably the only person who ever cared whether I ate properly."
There was something sad in that statement. A glimpse of the man beneath the carefully constructed persona. I wanted to ask more, but he changed the subject before I could.
"The fundraiser is tomorrow night," he said. "For the DA's office. Sterling bought a table. You'll be there."
"How do you know about that?"
"I know everything, Emilio. We've established this." He flipped the pancakes with more skill than I'd expected. "Roberto Green will be there. Your ex-husband. Various people who'll judge you for representing me. It's going to be unpleasant."
"I can handle unpleasant."
"I know you can. But I want you to understand something." He plated the pancakes and set them in front of me. "People are going to say things about you. About us. About your choices. Some of it will be true. Most of it won't matter. But it will hurt."
"I knew that when I took the case."
"You knew it intellectually. Experiencing it is different.
" He poured coffee into mugs. "When Green makes his comments tomorrow—and he will—remember that his opinion is irrelevant.
You're brilliant at your job. You're building an excellent defense.
What anyone else thinks about who you're defending doesn't change that. "
I took a bite of pancake to avoid responding. It was perfect. Of course it was. Sandro probably excelled at everything he decided to do, including domestic tasks I wouldn't have expected from him.
"You're trying to prepare me," I said finally. "Make sure I don't crack under social pressure."
"I'm trying to protect what's mine." He sat across from me with his own coffee. "Last night changed things between us. You're not just my attorney anymore. You're—"
"What?" I interrupted. "What am I now?"
He was quiet for a moment. "I don't have a word for it yet. But you're important to me. In ways I wasn't expecting. And I protect what's important."
My chest felt tight. "This is moving very fast."
"Yes."
"We should slow down. Maintain some boundaries."
"We should. But we won't." He reached across the island and caught my hand. "You're already in too deep, Emilio. The question is whether you're going to fight it or accept it."
I looked at our joined hands. Thought about last night. About waking up in his arms. About sitting in his kitchen eating pancakes while wearing his shirt. About how none of this felt wrong even though it absolutely should.
"I don't know how to accept it," I admitted. "I don't know how to be someone who sleeps with his client and doesn't hate himself for it."
"Then learn. You're brilliant—you'll figure it out.
" He squeezed my hand. "Finish your breakfast. Thomas will take you home.
Tomorrow night you'll survive the fundraiser and prove to everyone that you're stronger than they think.
Then Tuesday we have a strategy meeting about the witness depositions. "
"Very scheduled. Very organized."
"I like having plans." He smiled slightly. "Though I'm learning to appreciate when you disrupt them."
We finished breakfast in companionable silence. I borrowed clothes—designer casuals that fit reasonably well—and gathered my things while trying not to think about the fact that I was doing a walk of shame from my client's house at 9 AM on a Wednesday.
Thomas was waiting with the car. Professional and discreet as always, he didn't comment on my appearance or the fact that I was clearly wearing Sandro's clothes.
Sandro walked me to the car. Kissed me in full view of his staff, claiming and possessive. "Tomorrow night. Survive the fundraiser. Show them what you're made of."
"I will."
"I know." He traced my jaw with his thumb. "You're stronger than you think, Emilio. Don't let them make you forget that."
The drive home gave me too much time to think. About what I'd done. What it meant. How completely I'd compromised myself in less than two weeks of knowing Sandro Vitale.
At my apartment, I showered and changed into my own clothes. Went to the office and tried to focus on other cases while my mind kept drifting back to Sandro's hands on me. His mouth. The way he'd looked at me this morning like I was something precious he'd acquired.
The next evening came too quickly.
The fundraiser was at the Plaza Hotel. I arrived alone, wearing my best suit and the kind of professional mask that had gotten me through law school and the bar exam and six years of a failing marriage.
The Sterling & Associates table was near the front. Richard was already there with two other senior partners and their spouses. My seat was between an empty chair and—
Fuck.
Marco Delgado. My ex-husband was sitting two seats away, chatting with the woman beside him like he had every right to be at my firm's table.
I slid into my assigned seat and tried to ignore the way my stomach clenched. This was going to be worse than I'd anticipated.
"Emilio." Marco's voice was carefully neutral. Professional. "You look well."
"Thank you." I didn't return the compliment. Didn't ask why he was here or how he'd gotten seated at our table. Just focused on the program in front of me like it contained fascinating information.
The empty seat beside me filled a moment later. Roberto Green settled in with the confidence of a man who thought he was winning. He nodded to me without speaking, which was somehow worse than if he'd been overtly hostile.
Dinner was interminable. Salad courses and speeches about justice and public service. Roberto made passive-aggressive comments that I ignored. Marco kept glancing at me like he wanted to say something. I focused on my food and counted the minutes until I could leave.
During the entrée, Roberto decided subtle wasn't working.
"So, Emilio." His voice was loud enough to carry to the surrounding tables. "You're representing Alessandro Vitale. That's quite a career move."
The table went quiet. Everyone pretending not to listen while absolutely listening.
"Mr. Vitale is my client, yes." I kept my voice level. Professional.
"Must be desperate for billable hours if you're willing to represent someone everyone knows is guilty." Roberto smiled like he'd said something clever instead of deeply offensive.
I set down my fork. Deliberately. Precisely. Let the silence stretch while everyone waited to see what I'd do.
"Roberto." I turned to face him fully. "How's your conviction rate looking these days?"
He blinked, thrown by the change in topic. "Seventy-three percent. One of the highest in the office."
"Interesting. I track those statistics differently." I smiled. "When you remove cases that relied on suppressed evidence or coerced witnesses, what does that rate drop to?"
His face started to redden. "That's not—"
"Approximately fifty-two percent, according to the data I've seen.
Which means almost a third of your 'successful' prosecutions were built on questionable tactics.
" I paused. Let that sink in. "At least my clients choose me voluntarily.
Can you say the same? Or did your supervisor assign you the Vitale case because they think you're expendable enough to risk losing a high-profile trial? "
The table had gone completely silent. Marco was staring at me like he didn't recognize me. Roberto's face had gone from red to purple.
"You—" Roberto started.
"Have a good evening, Roberto." I stood, dropping my napkin on the table. "Enjoy your entrée. I'm sure the veal is as overcooked as your legal arguments usually are."
I walked out of the ballroom without looking back. Made it to the lobby before my hands started shaking. Adrenaline and anger and something that felt almost like exhilaration coursing through me.
I'd just publicly humiliated an assistant district attorney at a fundraiser full of legal professionals. Defended my choice to represent Sandro in front of people whose opinions could affect my career. Burned a bridge I probably couldn't rebuild.
And it felt amazing.
My phone buzzed. Text from Sandro.
I heard what happened. Well done.
I stared at the message. How do you already know what happened? I just walked out.
The response came immediately: I have people everywhere. You were magnificent. Dinner tomorrow to celebrate?
I should have asked why he had people at a DA's office fundraiser. Should have been concerned about the level of surveillance he maintained. Should have done a lot of things.
Yes, I typed instead. Where?
My place. 7 PM. Come hungry.
I left the Plaza feeling reckless and alive in ways I hadn't felt since before my divorce. Maybe since before law school. I'd spent so long trying to be the perfect attorney, the perfect husband, the perfect version of myself that would earn approval from people who didn't matter.
Fuck approval. Fuck perfect. Fuck everyone who thought defending Sandro Vitale made me less than what I was.
I was brilliant at my job. I was building an excellent defense. And if people didn't like my client, that was their problem, not mine.
At home, I poured myself whiskey and sat in my shitty apartment thinking about the look on Roberto's face. About Marco's shocked expression. About how good it had felt to finally stop apologizing for my choices.
My phone rang. I almost didn't answer when I saw it was Richard.
"Mr. Rossi." Richard's voice was carefully neutral. "I heard about the incident at the fundraiser."
"I apologize if my behavior reflected poorly on the firm—"
"Don't." He cut me off. "Green deserved every word of that. His conviction rate is abysmal when you account for questionable tactics. You simply stated facts."
I blinked. "I thought you'd be angry."
"I'm impressed. You stood up for yourself and your client in a room full of people who were judging you. That takes courage." He paused. "However, you should know that Green will retaliate. He's petty and vindictive. Be prepared for that."
"I understand."
"Good. See you Monday." He hung up.
I sat holding my phone and processing what had just happened. Richard had approved. Had essentially endorsed my public confrontation with a prosecutor. Maybe because it was the truth, or maybe because Richard appreciated the strategy of it.
Either way, I'd crossed another line tonight. Publicly aligned myself with Sandro. Declared in front of witnesses that I was his attorney and proud of it, regardless of what anyone else thought.
There was no going back now.
My phone buzzed again. Another text from Sandro.
Sleep well, Emilio. Tomorrow we'll celebrate properly. I'm proud of you.
I fell asleep thinking about those words. About someone being proud of me for being myself instead of the version everyone else wanted. About how Sandro saw me more clearly than anyone ever had and wanted me anyway.
About how completely I was falling for a man who was probably going to destroy me.
And how little I cared about that possibility compared to how good it felt to finally be seen.
I was in too deep to save myself now.
But maybe I didn't want to be saved.
Maybe drowning in Alessandro Vitale was exactly what I'd been looking for all along.