Jennifer Cole - Suspended indefinitely, under investigation (2016)
Alexandra Shelley - Deceased, car accident (2015)
Seven attorneys. Four disbarred. One in prison. One missing. One dead.
And here I was, attorney number eight.
I closed the folder and sat in my office watching the city wake up outside my window. People going to work. Living their normal lives. Not making catastrophic decisions that would probably destroy them.
I should withdraw from the case. Richard had given me this information as a warning and an out. I could cite ethical concerns. Conflict of interest. Anything. Just walk away before I became another name on that list.
My phone buzzed.
I looked down at the screen, already knowing somehow that it would be him.
Unknown number. But I knew.
I appreciate a man who knows when to run. See you next week, Emilio. Try not to think about me too much between now and then.
No signature. No explanation for how he got my personal cell number—the one I didn't give to clients, the one that wasn't on any business card.
But he had it anyway. Because of course he did. Because Sandro Vitale knew everything about me, and I apparently knew nothing about him except what he chose to reveal.
I stared at the message. Read it three times. Four.
I appreciate a man who knows when to run.
He'd watched me flee his office yesterday. Had seen through my professional composure to the fear and attraction churning underneath. And instead of being disappointed or angry, he was amused. Entertained by my retreat like it was all part of some game he was playing.
Try not to think about me too much between now and then.
Too late. I'd thought about almost nothing else since leaving Inferno. The way he'd looked at me. The casual invasion of my personal space. The slight smile when I'd gathered my things to leave. The cologne that I could still smell if I closed my eyes.
I was so fucked.
I should delete the message. Block the number. Maintain professional boundaries and treat him like any other client instead of like some dangerous addiction I was already craving.
I saved his contact instead. Labeled it simply: Sandro.
At 8 AM I went to the courthouse for a routine motion hearing on one of my divorce cases. The courthouse was busy—attorneys and clients and court personnel moving through the halls in that particular organized chaos that happened every morning.
I saw Marco before he saw me. He was standing outside one of the courtrooms talking to another ADA, both of them holding coffee and case files. For a moment I considered turning around, taking a different route to my courtroom. Avoiding the confrontation that was inevitable if he spotted me.
But that felt too much like running again. I'd done enough of that yesterday.
I kept walking, head up, projecting a confidence I didn't feel. Marco's gaze found me when I was maybe twenty feet away. I watched him make the same calculation I had—engage or avoid.
He chose engage.
"Emilio."
I stopped. Nodded. "Marco."
"We should talk. About Vitale. About what you're getting into."
"I'm in court in ten minutes. Maybe another time." I moved to step around him.
He shifted to block my path. Not aggressively, but enough to make his point. "You're making a mistake. Everyone in the DA's office is talking about it. They're building a file on you already. Photographs of you entering and leaving Vitale's club. Records of your phone calls. They're going to use you to get to him."
