I pulled out my phone and searched his name. Articles appeared—business deals, real estate acquisitions, charitable donations. All legitimate on the surface. But threaded through them were the other stories. The ones that used words like "alleged" and "suspected" and "sources close to the investigation."
Violence. Money laundering. Political corruption. The kind of power that made people disappear when they became inconvenient.
I found a photograph embedded in an article about a federal courthouse appearance. The image was grainy—some journalist with a telephoto lens catching Vitale as he left after charges were dismissed. He wore a three-piece suit that probably cost more than my car. Dark hair swept back from a face that was all sharp angles and cruel beauty. Even in the blurred image, something about his posture radiated control. Power. The absolute certainty of a predator who'd never been prey.
My pulse quickened.
I sat in my car in the parking garage and stared at that photograph for longer than I should have. Tried to tell myself it was professional curiosity. Tried to ignore the heat that spread through my chest and lower, settling heavy between my thighs.
This was a terrible idea. Every instinct I had screamed warnings. But I needed this case. Needed the money and the career boost and the chance to prove I belonged in those partnership discussions. Needed it so badly I could taste it.
My phone rang. I almost didn't answer when I saw the name.
"Marco."
"Emilio." My ex-husband's voice carried that tone—the one that said he was about to offer unsolicited advice disguised as concern. "I heard through the grapevine that Sterling assigned you the Vitale case."
Of course he'd heard. Marco worked as an assistant district attorney. The legal community in New York was incestuous and gossipy. Everyone knew everything.
"I haven't decided if I'm taking it yet," I lied.
"Don't."
Marco's certainty grated. We'd been divorced for eight months. He'd lost the right to tell me what to do when he'd fucked that paralegal in our bed.
"It's a legitimate case," I said. "Everyone deserves representation."
"Vitale's connected to the worst kind of people. You take this case, you're painting a target on your back. The DA's office keeps files on everyone who represents him. Your name will be in those files."
"Then I'll make sure my representation is exemplary and above reproach."
"Jesus, Emilio. This isn't about legal ethics. This is about your safety. About your reputation. You can't defend monsters and expect to come out clean."
The word "monsters" made me think of that photograph again. The cold beauty of Vitale's face. The way even a blurry image managed to convey danger.
"I appreciate your concern," I said, keeping my voice level. "But my career decisions aren't your business anymore."
"Your funeral," Marco said. Then, softer: "I'm trying to help you. For old times' sake."
Old times. Like the six years we'd been together meant anything compared to his dick in someone else. "I need to go. Thanks for calling."
I hung up before he could say anything else. Sat in my car breathing too fast, hands shaking slightly. Marco always did this—made me doubt myself with that perfectly calibrated mix of condescension and false care.
Fuck him. Fuck his concerns and his warnings and his certainty that he knew what was best for me.
I drove home through rush hour traffic, the file riding passenger. Every red light gave me time to second-guess. Every honking horn felt like a warning. By the time I pulled into my building's sad excuse for a parking lot, I'd talked myself out of taking the case at least six times.
Then I looked at the file again. Two hundred thousand dollars.
Inside my apartment—studio, barely 400 square feet, furniture from IKEA and desperation—I spread everything across my coffee table. Police reports. Medical records. Witness statements. Crime scene photos.
The nephew's arm looked bad. Compound fracture. Surgery required. But the photos also showed a knife on the ground nearby. Close enough to support the self-defense claim.
I opened my laptop and really researched this time. Went deeper than the public articles. Found court records. Previous cases. The pattern became clear: Alessandro Vitale had been arrested five times in the past decade. Zero convictions. Witnesses recanted. Evidence disappeared. Prosecutors who came after him aggressively found their careers derailed.
I should have been horrified. Instead, I felt a strange fascination curl in my gut. This was a man who bent reality to his will. Who made the legal system work for him through means I couldn't prove but could easily imagine.
Dangerous. Powerful. Untouchable.
