"I'm practical. We need lawyers who won't fold under federal pressure. Who won't turn on us when things get difficult. Emilio needs money and career advancement badly enough to ignore his better judgment. That makes him perfect."
"Until he figures out what you're doing," Luca pointed out. "Then he becomes a liability who knows too much."
"Then we'll have other options for handling the liability." I finished my scotch. "But I don't think it'll come to that. Emiliowants to believe he's making his own choices. I'll give him just enough autonomy to maintain that illusion while ensuring his choices always benefit us."
The room fell quiet. My partners knew me well enough to recognize when I'd made a decision. They might not approve, but they'd support it because that's what we did. Questioned privately, presented united publicly.
"Fine," Elio said finally. "But if your pet lawyer becomes a problem, I'm handling it my way."
"Agreed. Though I don't anticipate problems. Emilio's smart enough to understand the game once he's too deep to quit playing."
"Speaking of games," Matteo said, "what about the Costello family? We letting them think they can pressure us through the DA?"
"No. But we respond strategically, not emotionally." I looked at him directly. "No violence against the nephew. No intimidating witnesses we've already paid off. We let the legal system work exactly as we've designed it to work."
"Which means the lawyer earns his money by getting me acquitted." Matteo's smile was sharp. "Think he's up for it?"
"I think he's excellent at his job and motivated by the right incentives. Yes, he'll get you acquitted. The question is what it costs him personally to do it."
Elio frowned. "You want him to suffer."
"I want him invested. Suffering is just the price of investment in our world." I stood, signaling the business portion of the meeting was over. "Anything else?"
"The Brooklyn development," Luca offered. "We're clear to break ground next month. All the permits are approved, all the inspectors are paid off. Should generate significant legitimate revenue over the next two years."
"Good. We need more legitimate income streams. The federal scrutiny isn't going away." I collected the ledgers and returned them to my briefcase. "Elio, I want daily updates on the Vincent investigation. Matteo, maintain current security protocols but don't escalate anything with the Costellos. Luca, keep the political connections warm. We might need favors soon."
They nodded. We'd been doing this long enough that most communication was unspoken. They knew their roles. Knew what I expected. Knew the consequences of failure.
"One more thing," I added as they prepared to leave. "The new attorney comes to my office next week for strategy review. I want complete privacy. No interruptions. No security monitoring."
Elio's eyebrows rose fractionally. "You're going off record with him."
"I'm establishing trust. Can't do that if he thinks every conversation is being recorded."
"Or you're planning something you don't want us to know about," Matteo said bluntly.
I smiled. "Maybe both. Either way, next Tuesday afternoon the surveillance goes dark in my office."
They exchanged glances but didn't argue. I had enough autonomy to make these calls, and they trusted my judgment even when they questioned my methods.
After they left, I remained in the VIP room finishing my scotch and thinking about Emilio Rossi.
The man was a fascinating contradiction. Brilliant but desperate. Principled but compromised. Attracted to me but horrified by that attraction. He'd run from my office like I'd threatened him, when all I'd done was straighten his tie and tell him the truth about what he was getting into.
But he hadn't withdrawn from the case. Hadn't called the bar association to report my admission of witness tampering. Hadn't done any of the things his principles probably demanded.
Because he needed this too much. Needed the money and the career boost and maybe, underneath all his ethical concerns, needed to see what it felt like to be wanted by someone dangerous.
I pulled up the text I'd sent him earlier. Watched the read receipt show he'd seen it approximately forty-seven times based on my phone's tracking data. He was obsessing. Thinking about me. Probably hating himself for it.
Perfect.
My phone buzzed. Message from my investigator.
Subject arrived home 18:46. Ordered takeout 19:23. Lights still on at residence. No visitors. No calls except one rejected call from ex-husband at 16:34.
I'd had Emilio under surveillance since the courthouse. Nothing invasive—just basic monitoring to establish patterns. Where he went, who he talked to, how he spent his time. The data painted a picture of a lonely man going through motions. Work, home, occasional meetings with friends he seemed to endure rather than enjoy.
