"The south end of our bar doesn't exist." Sandro looked up at me. "Inferno's main bar runs east to west. There is no south end. Torres has never been to our club, or if he has, he certainly wasn't paying attention to the layout."
I grabbed the deposition and reread the section he'd indicated. He was right. The witness described a vantage point that was physically impossible based on the crime scene photos and club blueprints in the case file.
"He's lying about being there," I said slowly.
"He's lying about everything. The Costellos paid him to provide false testimony. They couldn't find actual witnesses who saw what they wanted, so they manufactured one."
I looked at the other two depositions with fresh eyes. Now that I was looking for it, the tells were obvious. Overly specific details about things that didn't matter. Vague descriptions of theactual assault. Inconsistencies in the timeline that didn't match the medical evidence.
"All three witnesses are fake," I said. "The Costellos planted them."
"Yes." Sandro set down the deposition and moved around my desk to where I was standing. Too close. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—cedar and leather and something darker. "Which means their case is built on manufactured evidence. The real witnesses already recanted. These new ones are provably lying. The prosecution has nothing."
My mind was racing through the implications. "If I can prove the witnesses were paid to lie by the Costello family, the entire case collapses. It's not just reasonable doubt—it's prosecutorial misconduct."
"Exactly." Sandro leaned against my desk, arms crossed, watching me process. "Though proving it will be delicate. The Costellos are careful about paper trails."
"But not careful enough." I was already making notes, building the argument. "Torres gives details about the bar layout that are verifiably false. That's not a mistake—that's someone who was never actually there being told what to say by people who also weren't there. If we can establish he's lying about his location, everything else he says becomes suspect."
"You're very good at this." Sandro's voice had gone lower, warmer. "Watching you work is fascinating."
I looked up and found him closer than I'd realized. Somehow he'd moved into my space while I was focused on the depositions. Near enough that I could see the flecks of lighter brown in his dark eyes. Near enough that if I leaned forward even slightly, we'd be touching.
I stepped back. Put the desk between us. "You shouldn't be here."
"Where should I be?"
"Anywhere except my office at midnight on a Friday." I tried to sound firm. Professional. "This is inappropriate."
"Is it?" He straightened but didn't move away from my desk. Didn't give me back the space he'd claimed. "I'm discussing case strategy with my attorney. Seems entirely appropriate to me."
"During normal business hours. With scheduled appointments. Not—" I gestured vaguely at the empty office, the late hour, the way he'd appeared like some fever dream I couldn't shake. "Not like this."
"You prefer scheduled invasions of your personal space?" His smile was slight but devastating. "I'll keep that in mind."
Heat crawled up my neck. "Mr. Vitale—"
"Sandro. I thought we established this."
"Sandro." His name felt dangerous in my mouth. "You need to leave."
"Do I?" He walked around the desk toward me with that predator's grace, deliberate and unhurried. I backed up until my shoulders hit the wall. He stopped just short of touching me, one hand braced on the wall beside my head. "Or do you need me to leave because you want me to stay?"
I couldn't breathe. His proximity was suffocating and intoxicating in equal measure. This close, I could see the sharp line of his jaw, the cruel curve of his mouth, the intelligence burning in those dark eyes that missed nothing.
"I have professional boundaries," I managed.
"You have professional boundaries you'd very much like me to cross." He leaned in fractionally. Not touching, but close enough that I could feel the heat of him. "You've been thinking about me all week. I know because I've been thinking about you too."
"This is—" Inappropriate. Unethical. Exactly what I wanted and couldn't admit. "This can't happen."
"Nothing's happening. I'm simply standing here having a conversation with my attorney." His gaze dropped to my mouth, lingered, then returned to my eyes. "Unless you'd like something to happen?"
Yes. God, yes. Every rational thought in my head was screaming at me to push him away, to maintain the distance that was already too compromised. But my body wasn't listening to rational thoughts. My body wanted to close the gap between us and find out if his mouth tasted as dangerous as it looked.
"I want you to leave," I said, and we both knew I was lying.
"Liar." But he stepped back, giving me space I didn't actually want. "I'm having dinner tomorrow night. Eight o'clock. Join me."
