"Then they're going to be disappointed. I'm his attorney, not his accomplice. Everything I do is protected by attorney-client privilege."
"Emilio—"
"Move, Marco. I have a hearing."
For a second I thought he might actually try to physically stop me. His jaw worked like he was chewing on all the things he wanted to say. Finally he stepped aside.
"When this blows up in your face, don't come crying to me."
I walked past him without responding. Made it to my courtroom with two minutes to spare and a tension headache building behind my eyes.
The hearing was routine. The divorcing couple had agreed to everything in mediation; we just needed the judge's signature. I presented the settlement agreement, answered a few standard questions, and was out in fifteen minutes.
I spent the rest of the day at my office, working on other cases and trying not to think about the folder Richard had given me. Trying not to think about the text message on my phone. Trying not to think about seeing Sandro again next week.
I failed at all three.
At 6 PM I gave up on productivity and went home. Ordered Thai food I barely tasted. Sat on my couch with my laptop and did something I knew was stupid but couldn't stop myself from doing anyway.
I researched Sandro Vitale. Not the legal cases this time. The man himself.
Social media was sparse—he wasn't on Instagram or Facebook or Twitter, at least not publicly. But there were photographs from charity events and business functions. Society pages showing him at galas and fundraisers. Always impeccably dressed. Always with someone beautiful on his arm—men and women both, no apparent preference.
I found a video from a business conference where he'd been on a panel about urban development. Watched him speak for twenty minutes about zoning laws and property values with the same cold precision he'd used in his office. He knew his subject matter completely. Commanded the room without raising his voice.
Devastating. That was the word for him. Devastatingly intelligent, devastatingly controlled, devastatingly beautiful in that sharp-edged way that made you want to cut yourself on him just to see if he'd bleed too.
I closed my laptop at midnight and took a shower hot enough to turn my skin red. Stood under the spray thinking about Monday afternoon. About walking back into Sandro's office and pretending I hadn't spent the last week obsessing over a man who was probably going to destroy my career and possibly my life.
Try not to think about me too much between now and then.
In bed, in the dark, I let myself admit the truth I'd been avoiding.
I wanted him. Wanted him in ways that had nothing to do with professional interest or legal strategy. Wanted those carefulhands on me. Wanted to see if the control would crack if I pushed hard enough. Wanted to know what it would feel like to be the focus of all that intense attention.
It was stupid and self-destructive and completely inevitable.
I'd known it the moment I saw his photograph in that first case file. Had felt it in my gut when he'd straightened my tie and watched me struggle not to react. The attraction was there, undeniable and dangerous as hell.
The question was what I was going to do about it.
The answer, I suspected, was nothing. Because Sandro Vitale was a client and a criminal and a man who destroyed everyone who got too close to him. Because I had principles, even if they were currently drowning under debt and desperation. Because I was smarter than this.
Except I wasn't. Smart would have been declining the case. Smart would have been listening to Sarah and Marco and everyone else who'd warned me. Smart would have been running as far from Sandro Vitale as I could get.
Instead, I was lying in bed at 1 AM with his text message pulled up on my phone, reading it for the dozenth time like some lovesick teenager.
See you next week, Emilio.
My name in his voice. The memory of it made my cock twitch.
I was so completely fucked.
And the worst part—the part that scared me more than anything else—was that I was starting not to care.
Seven attorneys before me. Four disbarred, one in prison, one missing, one dead.
I was going to be number eight.
