Chapter 26 Sandro
THE RICO INDICTMENTS arrived three weeks after the auction.
I sat in my attorney's office and read through the charges. Racketeering. Money laundering. Extortion. Wire fraud. All four of us named. Matteo. Elio. Luca. Me. The federal prosecutors were seeking life sentences for all of us.
Diana Martinez looked grim as she walked me through the details.
"This is substantial. Vincent Paglia's testimony is the centerpiece, but they've got eight months of financial records to support it.
Recordings from the wire he wore. Witness statements corroborating the structure of your organization. "
"How strong is their case?"
"Strong. But not unbeatable." She tapped the indictment documents. "There are procedural issues. Warrant scope problems. Questions about how they obtained some of this evidence. And Vincent's credibility is compromised by the embezzlement."
I called Emilio from the car on the way back to the estate. Told him the indictments came down. Asked him to come over so we could discuss it.
He arrived within an hour.
I handed him the documents and watched his face as he read. Expected fear. Panic. Maybe regret for tying himself to someone facing life in prison.
Instead his expression hardened with pure fury.
"This is bullshit," he said flatly. "Half of this evidence was obtained through warrants that were too broad. The surveillance was invasive beyond what's legally defensible. And Vincent's testimony is tainted because he was actively embezzling while gathering information for them."
He started making notes in the margins. Circling sections. Drawing connections. His legal mind already working on the defense.
"You're not scared?" I asked.
"I'm furious." He looked up at me. "They're trying to destroy you with evidence they obtained illegally. They're relying on testimony from a thief who had every incentive to manufacture evidence to save himself. This case has holes we can exploit."
I watched him dive back into the documents and felt something shift in my chest. He wasn't running. Wasn't second-guessing his choice. He was fighting.
For me.
"The trial's set for six months from now," I said. "I'm out on bail but I can't leave the city. I'll need to meet with the legal team constantly. Prepare testimony. Review evidence."
"Then I'm moving in." He said it like there was no other option. "We'll work on this together. Diana's good but she'll need help with strategy. I can consult."
"Emilio—"
"Don't." He set down the documents and crossed to me. "Don't try to protect me from this. Don't suggest I keep distance to avoid being dragged into it. I'm already in it. By choice. And I'm not going anywhere."
So he moved in that night.
Packed his things from his apartment and brought them to the estate. Set up a workspace in my study. Spread legal documents across every surface. Turned my home into a war room for fighting the federal government.
We fell into a routine over the next weeks.
Work during the day. Emilio and Diana and a team of attorneys reviewing every piece of evidence. Finding the weaknesses. Building the defense. I sat through depositions. Answered questions. Let them prepare me for what was coming.
At night we'd retreat to my bedroom and try to forget about the sword hanging over our heads. But it was always there. The unspoken reality that in six months I might be convicted. Sent to prison for the rest of my life. Separated from Emilio by concrete and steel and time.
One night, I couldn't sleep.
I stood by the window in my bedroom watching the city lights and thinking about everything I stood to lose. The empire didn't matter anymore. The money. The power. The carefully constructed reputation.
All that mattered was the man sleeping in my bed.
And I was terrified I was going to lose him.
Emilio stirred. "Can't sleep?"
"Just thinking."
He got up. Came to stand beside me. "About the trial?"
"About after. If things go wrong."
"They won't."
"But if they do." I turned to face him. Needed to ask the question that had been haunting me for weeks. "If I get convicted. If they send me away. Would you wait for me?"
He looked at me steadily. "That's not going to happen. We're going to win this case."
"Emilio—"
"We are." His voice was firm. Certain. "Diana's defense is solid. The evidence suppression motions will succeed. Vincent's credibility is destroyed by the embezzlement. We're going to win."
"But if we don't." I needed to know. Needed to understand what I was asking him to sacrifice. "If the worst happens. Would you wait? Or would you move on and build a life with someone who's actually free?"
He cupped my face with both hands. "Then I'll wait. However long it takes."
"That's not fair to you—"
"I don't care about fair." He kissed me softly. "I care about you. About us. If you're in prison, I'll visit every week. I'll write every day. I'll fight for appeals and retrials and whatever it takes. And I'll wait however long it takes because that's what you do when you love someone."
Something broke open in my chest. "You can't mean that."
"I absolutely mean it." His eyes were fierce. "You think I'd walk away from you because things got hard? After everything we've been through? After everything I've already sacrificed to be with you?"
"You'd be wasting your life—"
"I'd be loving you. That's not a waste." He pulled me closer. "Stop trying to push me away. Stop trying to protect me from the consequences of my own choices. I chose you, Sandro. I choose you every single day. Prison doesn't change that."
I kissed him desperately. Gratefully. Trying to pour everything I felt into the physical connection. All the fear and love and overwhelming gratitude that he'd stay. That he'd wait. That I wasn't losing him no matter what happened.
He kissed back with equal intensity. Then pulled away just enough to look at me.
"Take me to bed," he said quietly. "Show me what you're fighting for."
I lifted him into my arms and carried him to the bed. He wrapped his arms around my neck and buried his face against my shoulder. I could feel him trembling slightly.
I laid him down carefully. Covered his body with mine. Kissed him slowly and thoroughly until he relaxed into the mattress.
"I love you," I said against his mouth. "More than I thought I was capable of loving anyone."
"I know. I love you too." His hands framed my face. "Now stop talking and show me."
I undressed him slowly. Reverently. Taking my time with each piece of clothing. Mapping his skin with my hands and mouth. Memorizing every detail in case this ended. In case six months from now I was locked away and these memories were all I had left.
He shivered under my touch. "Sandro—"
"Let me." I kissed down his chest. His stomach. "Let me worship you. Let me show you what you mean to me."
I took him in my mouth and he gasped. Threaded his fingers through my hair. I worked him slowly. Carefully. Paying attention to every sound he made. Every way his body responded.
When he was trembling and desperate, I pulled back. Reached for supplies. Prepared him with gentle fingers that took their time. That made sure he was ready.
"Please," he gasped. "Sandro, I need—"
"I know. I've got you." I positioned myself. Pushed inside slowly. Watching his face. Watching the way his eyes widened and then fluttered closed. The way his mouth fell open on a silent moan.
I seated myself fully and stayed still. Let him adjust. Let us both feel the connection.
His eyes opened. Met mine. And I saw everything there. Love and trust and absolute certainty.
"Move," he whispered. "Please."
I did. Long, slow strokes that built heat gradually. That weren't about rushing toward release but about savoring every moment. About connection more than pleasure.
Though there was plenty of pleasure.
I shifted angles. Found that spot inside him that made him cry out and arch off the bed. Did it again. And again. Watching him come undone beneath me.
"Look at me," I commanded softly. "Keep your eyes open. Let me see you."
He did. His gaze locked on mine as I moved inside him. As I took him apart piece by piece with deliberate precision.
"You're so beautiful like this," I told him. "So perfect. So mine."
"Yours," he agreed breathlessly. "Always yours."
I felt my control starting to crack. The emotion was too intense. The reality of what we had and what I might lose overwhelming me.
My rhythm faltered. My breath hitched.
Emilio saw it. Pulled me down to him. Kissed me deeply.
"It's okay," he murmured against my mouth. "I've got you. Let go."
And something in me broke.
I made love to him with desperate intensity. Pouring everything I couldn't say into the physical connection. All my fear and gratitude and overwhelming love.
He took it. Took all of it. Met me stroke for stroke. His legs wrapped around my waist. His hands gripping my shoulders hard enough to leave marks.
"I love you," I choked out. "God, Emilio, I love you so much—"
"I know. I know." His voice was wrecked. "I love you too. So much. So—oh god—"
I felt him tighten around me. Watched his face as he came apart. Eyes wide and locked on mine. My name on his lips like a prayer.
It pushed me over the edge. I buried myself deep and shattered. Completely undone by the man in my arms.
When I could breathe again, I realized I was crying.
Silent tears sliding down my face as I held Emilio close. He was crying too. Both of us overwhelmed by emotion and fear and the terrible beauty of loving someone this much when the future was so uncertain.
"We're going to win," he whispered. Fierce and certain even through the tears. "I won't lose you. I won't."
I kissed him. Tasted salt. "Even if we don't—"
"We will." He pulled back to look at me. "But even if we don't, you're not losing me. That's not how this ends. We fight. Together. No matter what."
I held him close and tried to believe him. Tried to have faith that our story wouldn't end in a courtroom with a guilty verdict.