"Risky. The Costellos have resources and connections. Coming after them directly could have consequences."
"I'm aware. But if we can prove prosecutorial misconduct, the case gets dismissed with prejudice. They can't bring charges again." He leaned forward, animated now that we were discussing legal strategy. "We just need to establish that Torres and the other two witnesses were paid to lie. Bank records, communications, anything that proves coordination."
"My investigators are working on that. The Costellos are careful, but everyone makes mistakes eventually." I watched him think through the problem, watched his brilliant mind work. It was arousing in its own way. "You're very good at this. Building cases. Finding weaknesses."
"It's what I was trained for."
"You were trained to defend innocent people. I'm not innocent." I finished my oyster. "Does that bother you? Knowing I'm exactly what everyone says I am?"
He was quiet for a moment. "Yes and no."
"Explain."
"Yes, it bothers me that you've admitted to witness tampering and probably a dozen other crimes. No, it doesn't bother me enough to withdraw from the case." He met my eyes. "I don't know what that says about me."
"It says you're practical. Idealism doesn't pay student loans."
"It says I'm compromised."
"We're all compromised in our own ways, Emilio. The only difference is whether we admit it." The waiter returned with our second course—crudo with citrus and herbs. I waited until he'd left before continuing. "You think I've corrupted you. That representing me makes you complicit in whatever crimes you imagine I've committed."
"Haven't you? Aren't I?"
"I've given you an opportunity to use your considerable talents for a client who actually appreciates them. As for complicity—you're my attorney. Everything you do is protected by privilege. You're not complicit in my actions any more than a doctor is complicit in his patient's lifestyle choices."
"That's a convenient rationalization."
"It's also true." I tried the crudo. Perfect, as expected. "Tell me what you really want, Emilio. Not what you think you should want. What you actually want."
He drank more wine. Dutch courage, probably. "That's a dangerous question."
"I like dangerous questions. They get honest answers." I watched him struggle with whether to answer. Watched the internal battle play out across his features. "You want financial security. You want to make partner at Sterling. You want respect from your colleagues. All of that's surface level. What do you want underneath?"
"I want..." He stopped. Started again. "I want to matter. To someone. To something. I spent six years in a marriage where I was an afterthought. A career where I'm undervalued. I want to be seen as something other than expendable."
The honesty surprised me. Raw and unfiltered in a way I hadn't expected from someone so careful with his words.
"You matter to me," I said quietly. "Professionally and personally. I see you exactly as you are, Emilio. Brilliant. Principled even when those principles are inconvenient. Beautiful in ways you don't seem to recognize. I see all of it."
His breath caught. Visible even in the low lighting of the restaurant. "Sandro—"
"You asked what this is. What we're doing here." I reached across the table and caught his hand before he could pull away. His palm was warm, slightly damp with nervous sweat. "I'm showing you what it's like to be seen. To be valued. To have someone's complete attention focused on you instead of looking past you to something else."
"This is manipulation." But he didn't pull his hand away. "You're very good at it."
"Yes to both. But that doesn't make it less real." I ran my thumb across his knuckles, watching his eyes darken. "I'm manipulating you toward something you already want. That's not the same as forcing you toward something you don't."
"And what do I want?"
"Me. This. The attention and the money and the validation that you deserve better than what you've been settling for." I released his hand. "The question is whether you're brave enough to admit it."
The waiter returned with our main course, and we fell into easier conversation while eating. The case. Legal strategy. Witness impeachment techniques. All perfectly professionaltopics that let us both pretend the previous exchange hadn't happened.
But I could see the way Emilio's attention kept drifting to my hands. My mouth. The way he leaned imperceptibly closer when I spoke. All the small tells of someone fighting attraction and losing.
By dessert—a deconstructed tiramisu that was almost too beautiful to eat—the tension between us had wound so tight I could feel it humming in the air.
"I should go," Emilio said, even as he reached for his wine glass instead of standing. "It's late."
