Very soon.
I fell asleep planning exactly how to take Emilio Rossi apart piece by piece until nothing remained except what I'd built in his place.
It was going to be magnificent.
CHAPTER 5: EMILIO
THE WITNESS DEPOSITIONSblurred together after the eighth hour of review. I rubbed my eyes and checked my watch—11:40 PM on a Friday night. Normal people were out at bars or home with their families or doing literally anything except sitting in a dark office building reviewing testimony that probably wouldn't matter once we got to trial.
But I wasn't normal people. I was a desperate associate with a case that could make or break my career, and if that meant spending Friday night cross-referencing witness statements against crime scene photos, then that's what I'd do.
The building had been empty since security left at 10 PM. Just me and the hum of fluorescent lights and the periodic groan of the HVAC system. I'd told the night guard I'd lock up when I left. He'd looked at me like I was insane but hadn't argued.
I spread the three witness depositions across my desk. All three had initially stated they saw Matteo DeLuca break Anthony Costello's arm. Then all three had recanted, claiming they'd been mistaken or hadn't seen clearly or misremembered the sequence of events, and hadn’t seen anything.
They were compensated for their inconvenience and chose to forget what they saw.
Sandro's words echoed in my head. He'd admitted to witness tampering with the same casual tone most people used to discuss traffic. No shame. No hesitation.
But something about these new depositions bothered me. The language was too similar. The recantations too perfectly coordinated. Like someone had given them a script.
I was making notes about the inconsistencies when someone knocked on my office door.
I froze. Security had left two hours ago. The building should be empty except for me. My heart hammered against my ribs as I stood and crossed to the door, trying to decide if opening it was brave or stupid.
"Who is it?"
"Your most demanding client."
Sandro's voice. Smooth and amused and coming from the other side of my office door at midnight on a Friday.
I opened it.
He stood in the hallway wearing a three-piece suit like he'd just come from some formal event. Charcoal gray, perfectly tailored, with a burgundy tie and those silver cufflinks that caught the light. He looked like power and money and danger wrapped in Italian wool.
"How did you—" I started.
"Get into the building after hours?" He smiled slightly. "I know the owner personally. We have mutual interests."
Of course he did. Of course Sandro Vitale had connections that let him walk into secure buildings at midnight like he owned them. Probably because he did own them, or owned the people who owned them.
"What are you doing here?" I stepped back instinctively as he walked past me into my office without waiting for invitation.
"I was in the neighborhood. Saw your lights on. Thought I'd check on your progress." His gaze swept across my desk, cataloguing the spread of depositions and legal pads covered in my handwriting. "Working late on a Friday night. Dedicated."
"I have a case to prepare."
"You have several cases to prepare. Yet you're spending your Friday night on mine." He picked up one of the depositions, scanning it with the same focused intensity he'd brought to our first meeting. "Interesting."
I should tell him to leave. Should maintain boundaries and professional distance and all the things I'd promised myself I'd do after our last meeting. Instead I stood there watching him read, hyperaware of how his presence made my small office feel even smaller.
"This witness is lying," Sandro said after a moment.
"They all recanted. You told me you paid them to—"
"Not about recanting. About the original statement." He tapped a specific paragraph. "Michael Torres claims he was standing at the south end of the bar when the altercation occurred. Says he had a clear view of Matteo and Anthony Costello from that position."
"Yes. I read the deposition."
