***
Saturday morning I woke up to sunlight streaming through my apartment's single window and a sense of impending doom that felt almost like anticipation.
The dinner was in twelve hours. I had twelve hours to talk myself out of going. Twelve hours to remember my professional ethics and personal boundaries and all the reasons why having dinner with Sandro Vitale was a terrible idea.
I spent those twelve hours trying to convince myself I wouldn't go.
By 7 PM I was standing in front of my closet trying to decide between the navy suit and the charcoal one, knowing I'd already lost this battle before it began.
The navy suit. It fit better. Made me look less like a struggling associate and more like someone who belonged at expensive restaurants with dangerous men.
At 7:15 I was dressed and ready, telling myself I could still cancel. Could text Sandro and say something came up. Could maintain the boundaries that were already so badly compromised they barely existed.
At 7:30, a black car pulled up outside my building.
I got in.
The driver—older man, professional, clearly used to driving people who valued discretion—didn't ask for a destination. Just pulled smoothly into traffic and headed toward whatever restaurant Sandro had chosen.
I watched the city slide past the tinted windows and thought about all the choices that had led me here. Taking the case. Not withdrawing after Sandro admitted to witness tampering. Responding to his texts. Working late last night where he'd find me.
Each choice had felt insignificant at the time. Rationalizeable. Defensible. But they'd added up to this moment—sitting in the back of a car being driven to dinner with a man who'd made it very clear he wanted me in ways that had nothing to do with legal representation.
My phone buzzed. Text from Sandro.
I can see you overthinking from here. Relax, Emilio. It's just dinner.
I looked up and saw we were pulling up to a restaurant in Tribeca I'd only read about. The kind of place that required reservations months in advance and where a single meal cost more than my monthly grocery budget.
The kind of place Sandro Vitale probably owned or had enough influence over that reservations meant nothing.
The car stopped. The driver opened my door.
I got out and saw Sandro waiting at the entrance, devastating in a black suit with no tie, the top button of his shirt undone in a way that should have looked casual but instead looked calculated.
He smiled when he saw me. Slow and dangerous and certain.
"Emilio. Punctual. I appreciate that in a man."
"I'm always on time," I said, because apparently small talk was what we were doing. Pretending this was normal. Professional. Just dinner.
"I know. I've been paying attention." He offered his arm like we were walking into a formal event instead of just a restaurant. "Shall we?"
I should have refused the arm. Should have maintained distance and professionalism and all the things I'd promised myself I'd do.
I took his arm.
And stepped through the door into whatever came next, knowing I'd regret it and doing it anyway.
Because Sandro was right.
I wanted to see where this went.
Even if it destroyed me.
CHAPTER 6: SANDRO
I ARRIVED ATMarea thirty minutes early because preparation was the difference between control and chaos. The restaurant knew me well enough that they'd already set up my preferred table—corner booth with a view of the entrance, positioned so my back was never to the door. Old habits from a childhood spent watching my father conduct business over expensive meals while teaching me that vulnerability got you killed.
