"Perhaps." I dropped my hand as the car pulled up to my building. "But you'll look beautiful in the ruins either way."
The penthouse occupied the entire top floor. Glass and steel and carefully curated modern art that cost more than most people's houses. I watched Emilio take it in—the space, the view, the wealth on casual display.
"This is obscene," he said finally.
"This is success." I poured us both scotch from the bar. "I worked for everything you see here. Built it from nothingthrough intelligence and careful strategy. No one gave me anything."
"Except the criminal empire your father left you."
I smiled. "I see you've been doing your research."
"I researched my client. That's due diligence, not stalking." He accepted the scotch but didn't drink. "Your father was Antonio Vitale. He ran organized crime in New York for thirty years before dying of a heart attack. You inherited his operations along with his enemies and his reputation."
"Very thorough. What else did you learn?"
"That you're more dangerous than your father ever was. He ruled through violence. You rule through intelligence. People fear your mind more than your muscle."
"Fear is useful. But loyalty is better." I gestured to the windows. "Come see the view."
He followed me to the floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking Manhattan. The city spread out below us, millions of lights in the darkness. All those people living their small lives, never knowing that men like me shaped their world from above.
"It's beautiful," Emilio admitted.
"It's power." I stood behind him, close enough that he could feel my body heat but not quite touching. "Every light down there represents someone whose life I could change with a phone call. That's what real power looks like, Emilio. The ability to reshape reality through influence and capital."
"That's what corruption looks like."
"Same thing, depending on your perspective." I moved closer. Rested my hands on his shoulders. Felt him tense but not pull away. "You came here knowing what I am. Knowing what this would look like. Why?"
"Because I wanted to." He leaned back slightly, into my touch. "Because you're right. I'm tired of running from what I want just because I know I shouldn't want it."
"And what do you want?" I slid my hands down his arms, slowly, giving him time to object. He didn't.
"I want..." His voice caught. "I want you to stop asking me questions I can't answer honestly."
"Then don't answer honestly. Lie to me. Tell me you're here for purely professional reasons. That you feel nothing when I touch you. That leaving right now would be easy." I pulled him back against my chest. "Go ahead, Emilio. Lie."
He was breathing hard now. I could feel his heart racing through the thin fabric of his shirt. "I can't."
"No. You can't." I turned him around to face me. Cupped his face in both hands and watched his eyes dilate. "Because we're past the point of lies. Past the point of pretending this is anything other than what it is."
"And what is it?"
"Inevitable." I leaned in slowly, giving him time to pull away. Giving him the choice to stop this before it went further.
He didn't stop it.
Our mouths met in a kiss that was nothing like gentle. Hard and hungry and desperate, both of us taking what we'd been circling around. His hands fisted in my shirt. My hands tangled in his hair. We kissed like we were trying to consume each other, all the tension and attraction and unspoken desire finally finding release.
I walked him backward until he hit the window. Pressed against him fully, letting him feel exactly what he did to me. He gasped against my mouth and I took advantage, deepening the kiss, tasting the wine and grappa and something uniquely him.
When I finally pulled back, we were both breathing hard. His lips were swollen. His eyes were dark and dazed.
"That wasn't just talking," he said.
"No. It wasn't." I traced his jaw with my thumb. "Do you want me to stop?"
"I should want you to stop."
