I ran water over the residue but didn't scrub it away completely. Some part of me wanted to preserve what I'd done.Proof that I'd chosen this path consciously instead of being pushed into it.
At 2 AM I was lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, replaying the threat in my mind.Drop the Vitale case or you'll regret it.The Costellos, obviously. Probably the same people who'd planted those lying witnesses. They wanted Sandro vulnerable, wanted this case to force a plea deal, wanted leverage they could use to destroy Inferno's operations.
And I was the weak point. The idealistic attorney who could be scared off with anonymous threats.
Except I wasn't scared. I was furious.
Someone knocked on my door. Sharp, insistent, the kind of knocking that said whoever was out there wasn't leaving.
I grabbed the baseball bat I kept beside my bed—purchased after the divorce when I'd moved into this neighborhood that was "up and coming" according to my realtor and "sketchy as fuck" according to everyone else—and went to the door.
The peephole showed Sandro. Standing in my hallway at 2 AM looking absolutely furious.
I opened the door. "How do you already know?"
He walked past me without waiting for invitation. Moved through my apartment like he owned it, looking for something. His suit was still perfect despite the hour. Not a hair out of place. But his jaw was tight and his eyes were cold in a way I'd never seen before.
"Where is it?" he demanded.
"Where's what?"
"The threat. The letter. Whatever they sent you." He was already heading toward the kitchen. "You wouldn't call me about it, so you either destroyed it or you're planning to do something monumentally stupid like take it to the police."
I followed him. "I destroyed it."
He went straight to the sink. Looked at the ash residue still visible against the steel. His hands curled into fists.
"What did it say?"
"Does it matter? I handled it."
"What did it say, Emilio?" Each word precise and sharp.
"Drop the Vitale case or I'll regret it. No signature. Printed on standard office paper. Untraceable." I leaned against the counter. "The Costellos are trying to scare me off. It's not going to work."
Sandro pulled out his phone and made a call. Rapid Italian, none of which I understood, but the tone was clear. He was giving orders. Mobilizing resources. Doing whatever the hell he did when people threatened things that belonged to him.
And somewhere in the past few weeks, apparently I'd become something that belonged to him.
He hung up and looked at me. Really looked at me. Like he was cataloging damage or checking for injuries.
"Pack a bag," he said. "You're not staying here tonight."
"Excuse me?"
"This apartment isn't safe. You're coming to Inferno where my security can keep you protected." Not a request. A statement of fact.
"The hell I am." I crossed my arms. "I'm not running from some anonymous threat."
"This isn't running. This is being smart about a credible danger to your life." He moved closer. Invaded my space deliberately. "The Costellos don't make empty threats, Emilio. If they sent you a letter, it's because they're planning to escalate. I need you somewhere I can protect you."
"You need me?" I pushed back against his chest. Might as well have been pushing against a wall. "I don't need your protection. I can take care of myself."
"Can you?" His voice dropped. Dangerous and dark. "Can you take care of yourself against three men with a grudge? Against professional enforcers who know where you live, where you work, where your mother's in that nursing home in Queens?"
My blood went cold. "Don't you dare—"
"I'm not threatening your mother. I'm pointing out that they know everything about you. Every vulnerability. Every pressure point." His hands gripped my shoulders. "This isn't a game. The Costellos will hurt you to get to me. They'll break you and make sure I know they're doing it. So you can either come with me voluntarily, or I can carry you out of here. Your choice."
