Chapter 11 Emilio
I DIDN'T SEE the envelope until I was already inside my apartment, door closed behind me, keys still in my hand. White. Plain. No return address. Someone had slid it under my door while I was at Sandro's place.
My heart kicked against my ribs as I picked it up. The paper was cheap. Generic printer stock you could buy at any office supply store. Inside was a single sheet with a printed message:
Drop the Vitale case or you'll regret it.
No signature. No specifics. Just a threat stripped down to its essentials.
I photographed it with my phone, hands steadier than I expected.
Then I stood in my tiny apartment and considered my options.
Call the police—create a paper trail that could compromise the case.
Tell Richard—who would probably withdraw me from representation for my own safety.
Tell Sandro—who would do exactly what he'd been doing since we met: take control.
The smart play was obvious. Report it. Document everything. Let professionals handle threats against my life.
Instead, I walked to the kitchen sink and held the paper over the basin. Watched it curl and blacken as fire consumed the words. The ash fell into the steel sink like snow, gray and delicate and irretrievable.
Evidence destroyed. Decision made.
I ran water over the residue but didn't scrub it away completely. Some part of me wanted to preserve what I'd done. Proof that I'd chosen this path consciously instead of being pushed into it.
At 2 AM I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the threat in my mind.
Drop the Vitale case or you'll regret it.
The Costellos, obviously. Probably the same people who'd planted those lying witnesses.
They wanted Sandro vulnerable, wanted this case to force a plea deal, wanted leverage they could use to destroy Inferno's operations.
And I was the weak point. The idealistic attorney who could be scared off with anonymous threats.
Except I wasn't scared. I was furious.
Someone knocked on my door. Sharp, insistent, the kind of knocking that said whoever was out there wasn't leaving.
I grabbed the baseball bat I kept beside my bed—purchased after the divorce when I'd moved into this neighborhood that was "up and coming" according to my realtor and "sketchy as fuck" according to everyone else—and went to the door.
The peephole showed Sandro. Standing in my hallway at 2 AM looking absolutely furious.
I opened the door. "How do you already know?"
He walked past me without waiting for invitation. Moved through my apartment like he owned it, looking for something. His suit was still perfect despite the hour. Not a hair out of place. But his jaw was tight and his eyes were cold in a way I'd never seen before.
"Where is it?" he demanded.
"Where's what?"
"The threat. The letter. Whatever they sent you." He was already heading toward the kitchen. "You wouldn't call me about it, so you either destroyed it or you're planning to do something monumentally stupid like take it to the police."
I followed him. "I destroyed it."
He went straight to the sink. Looked at the ash residue still visible against the steel. His hands curled into fists.
"What did it say?"
"Does it matter? I handled it."
"What did it say, Emilio?" Each word precise and sharp.
"Drop the Vitale case or I'll regret it. No signature. Printed on standard office paper. Untraceable." I leaned against the counter. "The Costellos are trying to scare me off. It's not going to work."
Sandro pulled out his phone and made a call. Rapid Italian, none of which I understood, but the tone was clear. He was giving orders. Mobilizing resources. Doing whatever the hell he did when people threatened things that belonged to him.
And somewhere in the past few weeks, apparently I'd become something that belonged to him.
He hung up and looked at me. Really looked at me. Like he was cataloging damage or checking for injuries.
"Pack a bag," he said. "You're not staying here tonight."
"Excuse me?"
"This apartment isn't safe. You're coming to Inferno where my security can keep you protected." Not a request. A statement of fact.
"The hell I am." I crossed my arms. "I'm not running from some anonymous threat."
"This isn't running. This is being smart about a credible danger to your life." He moved closer. Invaded my space deliberately. "The Costellos don't make empty threats, Emilio. If they sent you a letter, it's because they're planning to escalate. I need you somewhere I can protect you."
"You need me?" I pushed back against his chest. Might as well have been pushing against a wall. "I don't need your protection. I can take care of myself."
"Can you?" His voice dropped. Dangerous and dark. "Can you take care of yourself against three men with a grudge? Against professional enforcers who know where you live, where you work, where your mother's in that nursing home in Queens?"
My blood went cold. "Don't you dare—"
"I'm not threatening your mother. I'm pointing out that they know everything about you.
Every vulnerability. Every pressure point.
" His hands gripped my shoulders. "This isn't a game.
The Costellos will hurt you to get to me.
They'll break you and make sure I know they're doing it.
So you can either come with me voluntarily, or I can carry you out of here. Your choice."
"That's not a choice."
"It's the only one you're getting tonight.
" But something flickered in his eyes. Something that looked almost like fear.
"Please, Emilio. Let me keep you safe. Just for tonight.
If you still want to come back tomorrow, we'll discuss it.
But right now I need you somewhere I don't have to worry about them getting to you. "
The please did it. Sandro didn't beg. Didn't ask nicely. Didn't show vulnerability unless something mattered enough to crack his control.
And apparently I mattered enough.
"Fine," I said. "One night. Then we discuss this like adults instead of you making unilateral decisions about my safety."
Relief flickered across his face, there and gone. "One night. Now pack. We're leaving in five minutes."
I packed quickly. Clothes for tomorrow, toiletries, my laptop, the files I'd been reviewing. Sandro watched from my bedroom doorway, managing to look both protective and possessive simultaneously.
When I emerged with my bag, he took it from me. Led me down to the street where a black Mercedes was idling illegally at the curb. Thomas in the driver's seat, engine running.
"Mr. Rossi," Thomas greeted as Sandro opened the back door for me. Professional. Polite. Like picking up terrified attorneys at 2 AM was completely normal.
Maybe for him it was.
I slid into the backseat and Sandro followed. The door closed with an expensive thunk. Thomas pulled into traffic smoothly, heading toward Inferno.
"How did you know?" I asked quietly. "About the threat. I didn't tell anyone."
Sandro was silent for a moment. Then: "I have cameras watching your building. My security noticed someone enter your floor who doesn't live there. Saw them slide something under your door and leave."
"You're surveilling my apartment?"
"I'm protecting my investment." He turned to look at me. "You became a target the moment you agreed to represent me. I made sure I'd know if anyone tried to hurt you."
"That's—" I wanted to say invasive. Controlling. A massive violation of my privacy. But the words died in my throat because under the anger was something else. Something warm and dangerous that I didn't want to examine too closely.
He'd been watching over me. Making sure I was safe even before threats materialized.
"How long?" I asked instead. "How long have you been watching my apartment?"
"Since the first day you took my case." No hesitation. No shame. "I protect what's mine, Emilio. You agreed to defend me. That made you mine to protect."
"I'm not yours. I'm your attorney."
"You're both." His hand found mine in the darkness of the backseat. Warm and solid and absolutely certain. "And you're in danger because of me. So yes, I'm going to do everything in my considerable power to keep you safe. Even if it pisses you off."
I should pull my hand away. Should maintain professional boundaries that were already badly compromised. Should do a lot of things that would be smart and ethical and completely contrary to what I actually wanted.
Instead I held on. Let him anchor me while my world tilted on its axis.
The drive to Inferno took twenty minutes. By the time we arrived, I'd stopped shaking. The initial adrenaline rush was fading, leaving exhaustion in its wake.
Sandro led me through the club's main entrance. The place was still open, still packed with beautiful people dancing and drinking and conducting business in shadowed corners. Security nodded to Sandro as we passed. Everyone knew who he was. What he was.
And everyone saw him with me. Saw him leading me through the club with my overnight bag in his hand. Drew their own conclusions about what that meant.
We took a private elevator to the top floor. The doors opened directly into an apartment I hadn't known existed. Hardwood floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city. Furniture that was actually comfortable instead of just expensive.
"This is yet another place where you live?" I asked, looking around.
"Sometimes. When I'm working late and don't want to drive home." He set my bag down by the couch. "There's a bedroom through there. Bathroom's attached. Help yourself to whatever you need."
I walked to the windows. The city spread out below us, lights like stars fallen to earth. From up here, everything looked peaceful. Ordered. Nothing like the chaos that had brought me here.
"I need to call my security team," Sandro said. "Make sure we're locked down for the night. Will you be okay for a few minutes?"
"I'm not going to fall apart because I'm alone for five minutes."
"I know. But I need to hear you say it anyway." He was watching me with that intensity that made my breath catch.
"I'll be fine. Make your calls."
He left me alone with the view. I heard him in another room, voice low and authoritative, giving orders that people would follow without question. Mobilizing whatever resources he had to protect me from threats I still wasn't entirely sure were real.
The Costellos wanted to scare me. They'd succeeded in making Sandro act, which was probably their secondary goal. Create chaos. Disrupt his operations. Force him to divert resources to protection instead of business.
I was a liability. A weakness they could exploit.
The thought should have bothered me more than it did.
Sandro returned after ten minutes. Jacket gone, tie loosened, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that I'd spent entirely too much time thinking about recently.
"Everything secure?" I asked.
"As secure as I can make it. I've got men watching the building, the club, your apartment. If the Costellos make another move, we'll know." He poured himself a drink from the bar. "Want one?"
"No. I want to know what happens next."
"Next you sleep. Tomorrow we strategize." He came to stand beside me at the windows. Close enough that I could feel his body heat. "You're safe here, Emilio. I promise you that."
"How can you promise something like that? They threatened me. They know where I live. What's to stop them from—"
He spun me around and kissed me. Hard and claiming and absolutely effective at shutting down my spiral into anxiety.
When he pulled back, I was breathing hard and gripping his shirt for balance.
"What was that for?" I managed.
"You were panicking. I don't like seeing you panic." His thumb brushed my jaw. "And I needed to remind both of us why you're here."
"I thought I was here for protection."
"You're here because you're mine and I take care of what's mine." He kissed me again, softer this time. "Come to bed. We'll deal with everything else in the morning."
I should argue. Should demand answers about security protocols and threat assessments and what the hell our plan was for the trial.
Instead I let him lead me to the bedroom. Let him undress me slowly, carefully, like I was something precious instead of a complication. Let him pull me into bed and hold me against his chest while exhaustion finally won.
"Thank you," I whispered into the darkness.
"For what?"
"For coming to get me. For caring enough to watch over my apartment. For..." I trailed off. For making me feel like I mattered. For protecting me even though it complicated his operations. For being terrified enough of losing me to show real fear.
"You don't need to thank me for protecting you," he said quietly. "That's not optional. That's not something you owe me gratitude for. That's just what I do."
I believed him. That was the terrifying part.
I fell asleep in Sandro Vitale's bed, in his private apartment above his nightclub, surrounded by his security and his possessive care, and felt safer than I had in my own home.
Which probably said more about how far I'd fallen than I wanted to admit.
But as his breathing evened out and his arms tightened around me, I couldn't bring myself to regret it.
Not yet.
Maybe not ever.