Tuesday morning I woke at 6 AM from dreams that left me hard and aching. Sandro's hands on me. Sandro's mouth. Sandro bending me over that expensive desk in his office and—
I took a cold shower that didn't help. Dressed in my best suit—charcoal gray, the one that fit perfectly and made me look competent and professional. Armor against whatever was coming.
At the office, I couldn't focus. Reviewed the Vitale case files for the dozenth time. Made notes about trial strategy andwitness impeachment. Anything to distract from the fact that in six hours I'd see him again and have to decide what I wanted.
Except I already knew what I wanted. I'd known since Saturday night when he'd kissed me like he was trying to consume me. Known since Friday when he'd backed me against my office wall and looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered.
I wanted him. Wanted this. Wanted to see where it went even if the destination was my complete destruction.
At 1 PM I told my secretary I had an offsite meeting and wouldn't be back until late. She didn't ask questions. Associates had offsite meetings all the time.
The drive to Inferno took forty minutes through midday traffic. My car made that concerning rattling noise it had been making for the past month. I'd been meaning to get it looked at but kept putting it off because I couldn't afford the repair bill.
I parked in Inferno's lot at 1:53 PM. Sat in my car trying to compose myself. Trying to remember I was here for a professional meeting about case strategy, not to finish what we'd started Saturday night.
The lie was so transparent I almost laughed.
At 1:59 I walked through Inferno's entrance. The club was closed—wouldn't open until evening—but security recognized me and waved me through. I took the elevator to the second floor where Sandro's office occupied a corner with views of the main floor below.
The door was open.
He was standing at the window, hands in his pockets, looking down at the empty club. He'd removed his suit jacket. White shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Silver cufflinks catching the light. He looked devastating and dangerous and exactly like every fantasy I'd had since Saturday.
"Punctual as always," he said without turning around. "Come in. Close the door."
I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. The click of the lock felt significant. Final.
"Sit." He gestured to the chairs in front of his desk without looking at me.
I sat. Set my briefcase beside the chair and pulled out my legal pad. Tried to project professional competence while my heart raced and my palms sweated.
Sandro turned from the window. His gaze traveled over me slowly—deliberate assessment, cataloguing every detail. The suit. The tie. The way I was gripping my pen too tightly.
"You look good," he said finally. "Nervous, but good."
"I'm not nervous."
"Liar." He crossed to his desk and perched on the edge, close to where I sat. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. "You've been thinking about Saturday. About what happened. What it means."
"I've been thinking about the case." The lie was automatic and unconvincing.
"Have you." It wasn't a question. "Tell me about the case, then. What brilliant strategies have you developed since we last spoke?"
I forced myself to focus on the legal pad. On the notes I'd actually made about trial preparation. "The prosecution's case relies heavily on the three witnesses—Torres, Williams, and Brennan. All claiming they saw the assault. All with statements that contradict the physical evidence."
"We've established they're lying. What's your strategy for proving it?"
"Cross-examination. Get them to commit to specific details under oath. Then demonstrate those details are impossible." I flipped through my notes. "Torres claims he was at the southend of the bar. We'll show the bar doesn't have a south end. Williams says he saw Matteo strike first. Medical evidence shows defensive wounds on Matteo's hands consistent with disarming someone. Brennan claims the fight lasted two minutes. Witness statements from your actual employees say thirty seconds maximum."
"Good. Methodical." Sandro reached out and took the legal pad from my hands. Set it on the desk behind him. "Now talk to me about what you've really been thinking about since Saturday."
My mouth went dry. "Sandro—"
"I sent you home that night. Gave you time to think. To decide what you want." He leaned forward slightly. Not touching me, but close enough that I could feel his body heat. "Have you decided?"
"I don't know what you want me to say."
"The truth. Are you here because you want to be? Or because you're afraid of what happens if you withdraw from the case?"
