Chapter 15 Emilio
THREE DAYS OF intensive trial prep had turned Sandro's apartment into a war room.
Legal pads covered every surface. Evidence files formed precarious towers on the dining table.
My laptop occupied the couch, surrounded by depositions and witness statements that I'd read so many times I could recite them from memory.
We were three weeks out from trial. Three weeks to finalize strategy, prepare witnesses, and build a defense so airtight that the prosecution wouldn't know what hit them.
I was reviewing Antonio Costello's medical records from the night of the incident—broken radius and ulna, displaced fracture, required surgical intervention—when Sandro emerged from his bedroom dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
"We need to take a break," he announced, straightening his cufflinks.
I looked up from the medical report. "We need to finish witness prep. I still haven't gone through Matteo's timeline for the third time."
"Matteo's timeline is consistent. You've verified it twice already." He crossed to where I was sitting and plucked the file from my hands. "You're going to burn yourself out before we ever reach the courtroom if you don't pace yourself."
"I work better under pressure."
"You work yourself into exhaustion under pressure. There's a difference." He pulled me to my feet. "We're going out tonight. Charity gala for St. Catherine's Children's Hospital. Black tie. Very exclusive."
I stared at him. "You want to go to a charity gala? Tonight? When we have three weeks of trial prep left?"
"I want to take you to a charity gala. Show you off.
Make it very clear to everyone who matters that you're with me.
" His hands settled on my hips. Possessive.
Claiming. "And yes, it's strategic. The more public our relationship, the harder it is for anyone to use it against us.
We control the narrative by being completely open about it. "
"That's insane. Every attorney in the city will be there. Judges. Politicians. People who'll use this against me in court."
"People who'll see that you're confident enough in your abilities that you don't hide your personal life. That you're with someone powerful enough that attacking you means attacking me." He kissed my forehead. "Trust me on this. Being seen together helps more than it hurts."
"I don't have anything appropriate to wear to a black-tie charity gala."
"Already handled." He checked his watch. "My tailor will be here in twenty minutes with a selection for you to choose from. He's got your measurements from the suits I had made for you last week."
"You had suits made for me?"
"Three of them. They'll be delivered tomorrow." He said it like it was completely normal to commission custom clothing for someone without asking. "You've been wearing the same rotation for weeks. You needed an upgrade."
I should argue. Should be offended that he was making decisions about my wardrobe. Should maintain some boundary between his world and mine.
Instead I asked, "What kind of suits?"
"The kind that make you look like you belong in courtrooms and boardrooms instead of struggling to keep up." His smile was satisfied. "Navy, charcoal, and a lighter gray for summer. Conservative enough for court. Well-made enough that opposing counsel will notice."
"You're impossible."
"I'm thorough. There's a difference." The elevator chimed. "That'll be the tailor with the tuxedos. Go shower. I'll have him set everything up in the bedroom."
I went. Because arguing was pointless when Sandro had already made up his mind, and because some part of me wanted to see what he'd chosen.
The shower helped clear my head. Hot water and expensive soap that smelled like cedarwood and something else I couldn't identify. By the time I emerged wrapped in one of Sandro's ridiculously soft towels, the bedroom had been transformed into a private fitting room.
Three tuxedos hung on a portable rack. Classic black, midnight blue, and charcoal gray. All cut in modern styles that would fit my build perfectly if the measurements were accurate.
The tailor stood beside the rack looking professional and slightly amused. "Mr. Vitale asked me to help with the fitting, but I can leave if you'd prefer privacy."
"It's fine. I have no idea what I'm doing anyway." I approached the tuxedos like they might bite. "These are all... a lot."
"Mr. Vitale wanted options. I'd suggest the midnight blue. It'll photograph well and the color suits your complexion." He pulled it from the rack. "Shall we?"
Twenty minutes later I was standing in front of a full-length mirror wearing a tuxedo that fit like it had been made specifically for my body.
Because it had been. The midnight blue was subtle—almost black until the light hit it right.
The cut emphasized my shoulders and tapered at the waist in a way that made me look taller, broader, more substantial than I actually was.
"Perfect," Sandro said from the doorway. He'd been watching for who knows how long. "We'll take that one. Have the others delivered to Emilio's apartment."
"I can't accept three tuxedos," I protested. "This is too much."
"You can and you will. You're going to need formal wear for events like this." He dismissed the tailor with a nod and crossed to me. Adjusted my bow tie even though it was already perfect. "Besides, you look devastating in this. I want to see you wear it."
"You want to show me off."
"Absolutely. You're brilliant and beautiful and mine. Why wouldn't I want everyone to see that?" His hands settled on my waist. "Any objections?"
I should have a dozen objections. This was too fast, too public, too much of everything.
But looking at us in the mirror—him in his perfect black tuxedo, me in midnight blue that transformed me into someone who could stand beside him without looking out of place—I couldn't find the words to protest.
"No objections," I said quietly.
"Good." He kissed my neck just below my ear. "We leave in thirty minutes. I'll have Thomas bring the car around."
The drive to the St. Regis was quiet. Sandro spent most of it on his phone, coordinating something with his partners. I watched the city pass by the windows and tried not to think about what we were about to do.
"Nervous?" Sandro asked, pocketing his phone.
"Terrified."
"Don't be. You've done nothing wrong. You're an attorney attending a charity event with someone you're working with. That's completely normal." He took my hand. "The only thing that makes this complicated is other people's judgment. Fuck their judgment."
"Easy for you to say. You don't have a law license they can threaten."
"No, but I have a reputation they can damage. And I'm choosing to risk it by being here with you publicly." He lifted my hand and kissed my knuckles. "We're in this together, Emilio. Whatever happens tonight, we face it together."
The car pulled up to the St. Regis and I saw the red carpet, the photographers, the crowd of donors arriving in their expensive formal wear. My stomach clenched.
"I can't do this," I said suddenly. "Sandro, I can't—"
"Yes, you can." He cupped my face and forced me to look at him. "You're Emilio Rossi. You destroyed a prosecutor in front of the entire DA's office. You fought your firm's managing partners to stay on my case. You're not afraid of cameras and gossip."
"I'm afraid of what this means. What it'll cost me."
"Then let me be afraid for both of us. Let me handle the fallout. All you have to do is walk in there with your head high and show everyone that you're exactly where you want to be." His thumb brushed my cheek. "Can you do that?"
I took a breath. Let it out slowly. "Yes. I can do that."
"That's my Emilio." He kissed me once, quick and claiming, then opened the car door. "Let's go make an entrance."
The photographers noticed us immediately. Sandro Vitale didn't attend many public events, which made his appearance newsworthy. Sandro Vitale arriving with a man on his arm made it scandalous.
Cameras flashed. Questions were shouted. Sandro kept his hand on my back—possessive and public—as we walked the carpet. He didn't answer questions, didn't acknowledge the photographers beyond a slight smile that probably looked charming and felt dangerous.
Inside, the ballroom was elegant. Crystal chandeliers. Round tables with white linens. A string quartet playing something classical in the corner. Five hundred of New York's wealthiest gathered to donate money they'd write off their taxes while feeling philanthropic.
We'd barely crossed the threshold when I saw Marco.
My ex-husband stood near the bar, wine glass in hand, staring at us with an expression I couldn't quite read. Shock, maybe. Or anger. Or the complicated mix of both that came from seeing someone you used to know intimately with someone new.
"Breathe," Sandro murmured against my ear. "He's the past. I'm the present. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you rattled."
"I'm not rattled."
"You're gripping my arm hard enough to leave marks." But he didn't pull away. Just covered my hand with his. Anchoring me. "Do you want to talk to him?"
"God, no."
"Then we'll avoid him. Plenty of other people here I need to talk to anyway." He guided me toward a cluster of donors who greeted him with the kind of deference that came from either respect or fear. Probably both.
I played my role. Smiled. Made polite conversation about the hospital's programs and the importance of pediatric care. Let Sandro introduce me as "my attorney, Emilio Rossi" to people who definitely knew that description was incomplete.
"Sandro," a woman's voice cut through the polite chatter. Cold. Disapproving. "I didn't expect to see you here."
I turned and found myself face to face with someone who could only be old money. She was in her sixties, dripping in diamonds, with the kind of perfect posture that came from decades of deportment training. Her eyes swept over me with obvious judgment.