The maître d' confirmed the arrangements with the kind of deference money and reputation bought. Private section. No interruptions unless I signaled. Wine already breathing. Everything exactly as I'd specified.
Now I just had to wait and see if Emilio would actually show.
I was ninety-three percent certain he would. He'd been thinking about me all week—my surveillance confirmed it. Late nights at the office when he should have been sleeping. Research into my background that went well beyond case preparation. The way he'd stared at his phone after each text I sent, reading them multiple times before responding or not responding at all.
But there was always that seven percent chance his principles would win out over his curiosity. That he'd cancel at the last minute or simply not show up. It would be disappointing but not catastrophic. I had contingencies.
Though I found myself hoping I wouldn't need them.
At 7:52 PM, my phone buzzed. Text from Thomas, my driver.
Picked up package. En route. ETA 6 minutes.
Package. Like Emilio was cargo instead of a person. I supposed in some ways he was—a valuable acquisition I was in the process of securing. But the terminology felt reductive for what I was actually doing.
Which was dangerous thinking. Emilio Rossi was a means to an end. A brilliant attorney I needed loyal and compromised. The fact that he was also beautiful and responsive and exactly the kind of challenge I found irresistible didn't change his fundamental purpose.
I reminded myself of this while settling the bill in advance. Everything paid for, no interruptions when the check came. I'd already arranged for the wine to be breathing at our table—a Barolo that cost $800 per bottle and tasted like dark fruit and sin. Emilio would probably choke when he saw the price if he looked it up later, but that was part of the point. Small demonstrations of the wealth I could share if he proved worthy.
At 7:57, I left my table and positioned myself at the restaurant's entrance. Waited with the kind of patience I'd cultivated over years of watching my father conduct business. Preparation was everything. First impressions mattered.
At 7:58, the black car pulled up outside.
I watched through the glass as Emilio emerged, cataloguing details with the same precision I'd applied at the courthouse. The navy suit—good choice. Excellent tailoring that emphasized his lean build without being overtly sexual. Conservative enough for a business dinner. Expensive enough to show he understood the venue's requirements.
His hair was styled but not overly so. Clean-shaven. He moved toward the entrance with careful deliberation, like a man walking into something he knew might destroy him.
I smiled when he saw me. Let him see the satisfaction in my expression. Let him know I'd been waiting for him specifically.
"Emilio. Punctual. I appreciate that in a man."
"I'm always on time," he said, hands shoved in his pockets. Nervous. Trying not to show it.
"I know. I've been paying attention." I offered my arm like we were attending a formal event instead of just having dinner. A deliberate gesture—intimate, old-fashioned, claiming. "Shall we?"
I watched the internal battle play across his features. Saw him weigh whether accepting my arm crossed some professional line. Saw him decide it didn't matter because he'd already crossed so many others.
He took my arm.
The contact sent satisfaction through my chest. Small victories built into larger ones. He was choosing this. Choosing me. One decision at a time.
I led him into the restaurant, through the main dining room to our private booth in the corner.
"Please. Sit." I gestured to the seat across from me.
He slid into the booth with movements that were just slightly too careful. Hyperaware of the space, of me, of every choice he was making. I could practically see him cataloguing exit strategies even as he settled into place.
"Wine?" I offered, already pouring his glass.
"I probably shouldn't drink while discussing case strategy."
"One glass won't impair your judgment. And we're not exclusively discussing the case." I slid the wine across the table. "Consider this a getting-to-know-you dinner. Attorney and client building rapport."
"Is that what this is?" He took the glass but didn't drink. "Building rapport?"
"Among other things." I leaned back, studying him openly. Let him see me looking. Let him feel the weight of my attention. "You came. I wasn't entirely certain you would."
"I almost didn't." Honesty, surprisingly. Most people lied when nervous. "This feels inappropriate."
