"I stayed because I'm falling in love with you." The admission came out quiet. Almost reluctant. "And that terrifies me more than the Costellos or the FBI or anything else."
My chest tightened. "Why does it terrify you?"
"Because love makes people stupid. Makes them compromise everything they believe in. Makes them defend the indefensible and justify the unjustifiable." His eyes were dark. Serious. "I'm terrified I'm going to wake up one day and not recognize myself. That I'll have sacrificed so much for you that there's nothing left of who I was."
"Then don't sacrifice who you were. Become who you're meant to be instead." I pulled him down for a kiss. "You're not losing yourself, Emilio. You're finding a version of yourself that isn't bound by other people's expectations. That's freedom, not loss."
"That's a very convenient rationalization for corrupting someone."
"Maybe. But it's also true." I rolled him beneath me. "Now stop overthinking and let me show you exactly why choosing this was worth it."
He laughed and pulled me down into another kiss.
We had four weeks until trial. Four weeks to prepare. Four weeks to make sure every possible threat was neutralized and every possible advantage was secured.
Four weeks to prove that Emilio Rossi choosing me over everything else was the smartest decision he'd ever made.
And I would prove it. Whatever it took.
Because I protected what was mine.
And Emilio was mine completely.
CHAPTER 15: EMILIO
THREE DAYS OFintensive trial prep had turned Sandro's apartment into a war room. Legal pads covered every surface. Evidence files formed precarious towers on the dining table. My laptop occupied the couch, surrounded by depositions and witness statements that I'd read so many times I could recite them from memory.
We were three weeks out from trial. Three weeks to finalize strategy, prepare witnesses, and build a defense so airtight that the prosecution wouldn't know what hit them.
I was reviewing Antonio Costello's medical records from the night of the incident—broken radius and ulna, displaced fracture, required surgical intervention—when Sandro emerged from his bedroom dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
"We need to take a break," he announced, straightening his cufflinks.
I looked up from the medical report. "We need to finish witness prep. I still haven't gone through Matteo's timeline for the third time."
"Matteo's timeline is consistent. You've verified it twice already." He crossed to where I was sitting and plucked the file from my hands. "You're going to burn yourself out before we ever reach the courtroom if you don't pace yourself."
"I work better under pressure."
"You work yourself into exhaustion under pressure. There's a difference." He pulled me to my feet. "We're going out tonight.Charity gala for St. Catherine's Children's Hospital. Black tie. Very exclusive."
I stared at him. "You want to go to a charity gala? Tonight? When we have three weeks of trial prep left?"
"I want to take you to a charity gala. Show you off. Make it very clear to everyone who matters that you're with me." His hands settled on my hips. Possessive. Claiming. "And yes, it's strategic. The more public our relationship, the harder it is for anyone to use it against us. We control the narrative by being completely open about it."
"That's insane. Every attorney in the city will be there. Judges. Politicians. People who'll use this against me in court."
"People who'll see that you're confident enough in your abilities that you don't hide your personal life. That you're with someone powerful enough that attacking you means attacking me." He kissed my forehead. "Trust me on this. Being seen together helps more than it hurts."
"I don't have anything appropriate to wear to a black-tie charity gala."
"Already handled." He checked his watch. "My tailor will be here in twenty minutes with a selection for you to choose from. He's got your measurements from the suits I had made for you last week."
"You had suits made for me?"
"Three of them. They'll be delivered tomorrow." He said it like it was completely normal to commission custom clothing for someone without asking. "You've been wearing the same rotation for weeks. You needed an upgrade."
I should argue. Should be offended that he was making decisions about my wardrobe. Should maintain some boundary between his world and mine.
