I took a breath. Let it out slowly. "Yes. I can do that."
"That's my Emilio." He kissed me once, quick and claiming, then opened the car door. "Let's go make an entrance."
The photographers noticed us immediately. Sandro Vitale didn't attend many public events, which made his appearance newsworthy. Sandro Vitale arriving with a man on his arm made it scandalous.
Cameras flashed. Questions were shouted. Sandro kept his hand on my back—possessive and public—as we walked the carpet. He didn't answer questions, didn't acknowledge thephotographers beyond a slight smile that probably looked charming and felt dangerous.
Inside, the ballroom was elegant. Crystal chandeliers. Round tables with white linens. A string quartet playing something classical in the corner. Five hundred of New York's wealthiest gathered to donate money they'd write off their taxes while feeling philanthropic.
We'd barely crossed the threshold when I saw Marco.
My ex-husband stood near the bar, wine glass in hand, staring at us with an expression I couldn't quite read. Shock, maybe. Or anger. Or the complicated mix of both that came from seeing someone you used to know intimately with someone new.
"Breathe," Sandro murmured against my ear. "He's the past. I'm the present. Don't give him the satisfaction of seeing you rattled."
"I'm not rattled."
"You're gripping my arm hard enough to leave marks." But he didn't pull away. Just covered my hand with his. Anchoring me. "Do you want to talk to him?"
"God, no."
"Then we'll avoid him. Plenty of other people here I need to talk to anyway." He guided me toward a cluster of donors who greeted him with the kind of deference that came from either respect or fear. Probably both.
I played my role. Smiled. Made polite conversation about the hospital's programs and the importance of pediatric care. Let Sandro introduce me as "my attorney, Emilio Rossi" to people who definitely knew that description was incomplete.
"Sandro," a woman's voice cut through the polite chatter. Cold. Disapproving. "I didn't expect to see you here."
I turned and found myself face to face with someone who could only be old money. She was in her sixties, dripping in diamonds, with the kind of perfect posture that came fromdecades of deportment training. Her eyes swept over me with obvious judgment.
"Mrs. Ashworth," Sandro said smoothly. "Always a pleasure. Have you met Emilio Rossi? He's one of the finest attorneys in the city."
"I'm sure he is." Her tone suggested she thought the opposite. "I wasn't aware you were... dating, Sandro. How unexpected."
The pause before "dating" was deliberate. Loaded with implication.
"Life's full of surprises," Sandro replied, his hand tightening slightly on my back. "Emilio's been an extraordinary addition to my life. In every capacity."
Her expression soured further. "Well. I suppose everyone has their... preferences. Do enjoy the evening." She swept away in a cloud of expensive perfume and barely concealed disdain.
"Charming woman," I said through gritted teeth.
"Vicious old bat who's been trying to marry me off to her granddaughter for five years. She's just angry I'm not interested in her dynasty-building schemes." He steered me toward the bar. "You handled that well."
"I wanted to tell her to fuck off."
"I know. That's what made it satisfying to watch you smile politely instead." He ordered us both drinks. "Welcome to my world, Emilio. Where people smile to your face and sharpen knives behind your back."
"Your world is exhausting."
"My world is honest about its dishonesty. That's better than most." He handed me a glass of champagne. "To surviving old money judgment and ex-husband sightings."
I clinked my glass against his and drank.
The evening progressed in a blur of introductions and thinly veiled curiosity. Everyone wanted to meet Sandro's mysterious companion. Everyone had opinions they were barely hiding.
Some were kind. A few fellow attorneys congratulated me on the Vitale case, said they'd heard good things about my work. Others were cold. Judges who'd always been cordial suddenly looked at me like I'd betrayed some unspoken code.
And then I saw Roberto Green.
