"Better than expected. The bail got halved."
"Morrison would've set it at two-fifty anyway."
"Yes, but the lawyer made it look like he won the argument. Psychology matters." I watched Manhattan slide past the tinted windows. "He's good, Matteo. Smart. Knows how to work a courtroom."
"You sound pleased."
I was pleased. And intrigued. And experiencing an attraction I hadn't anticipated—which was its own kind of problem.
Emilio Rossi. Recent divorce. Desperate for money and career advancement. Intelligent enough to be useful, vulnerable enough to be malleable. The kind of man who could be shaped into exactly what I needed him to be.
The kind of man who'd looked at me in that courtroom with carefully hidden desire before forcing his attention elsewhere.
I'd built my empire on reading people accurately. On understanding what they wanted and using that knowledge to control them. Emilio wanted money, respect, professional success. Those were easy enough to provide in exchange for loyalty.
But there was something else there too. Something in the way he'd pulled back from that momentary contact. The way his breath had caught so slightly I'd almost missed it.
He wanted me. And he was horrified by that wanting.
Perfect.
"Set up the office for this afternoon," I told Matteo. "I'm meeting with Rossi at two. Make sure we're not disturbed."
"You planning to scare him or seduce him?"
"Why choose? Fear and desire aren't mutually exclusive." I ended the call.
The rest of my morning was consumed by the usual business. Meeting with my accountant about the quarterly reports. Call with a city councilman who needed reminding about which projects to support in the next budget cycle. Lunch with a real estate developer who wanted permission to build in territory I controlled.
All of it routine. All of it necessary. All of it boring.
At 1:45, I was in my office at Inferno, reviewing the financial irregularities I'd been tracking. Someone was skimming money through shell accounts. Fifty thousand over three months. Small enough to be overlooked. Large enough to be deliberate.
Only five other people had the access codes needed to create those accounts. Three were my partners. One was our accountant, Vincent. The fifth was dead and buried in concrete.
Which meant someone I trusted was betraying me.
I made notes for later investigation. This required careful handling. Accusations without proof would fracture the partnerships I'd spent years building. But theft couldn't go unpunished either.
My phone buzzed at 1:58. Security at the door. "Mr. Rossi is here."
"Send him up."
I stood and moved to the window. My office overlooked the club's main floor—currently empty, since Inferno didn't open until nine PM—with floor-to-ceiling glass that let me observe without being seen. Black marble desk. Italian leather chairs. A single chess set, mid-game, on the side table. Everything carefully curated to project power and control.
The door opened at exactly 2:00 PM.
Emilio stepped inside and stopped. I watched his reflection in the glass as he took in the space. Cataloging, just like I had with him. Assessing.
"Mr. Vitale." His voice was steady. Professional.
I turned from the window. "Mr. Rossi. Please, sit."
He chose the chair across from my desk rather than the couch—maintaining distance. Smart. He set his briefcase beside the chair and pulled out a legal pad covered in neat handwriting.
"I have questions about the incident," he began. "I need complete honesty about what happened that night. If you lie to me even once, I withdraw from the case immediately."
I sat behind my desk, fingers steepled. "You're establishing ground rules. I appreciate clarity."
