I'd live with it.
Because I protected what was mine.
And Emilio was mine completely.
Whatever it took.
CHAPTER 17: EMILIO
RICHARD'S ASSISTANT CALLEDat 9:40 AM. "Mr. Sterling needs to see you in his office immediately."
Not "when you have a moment." Not "at your convenience." Immediately.
I saved the witness cross-examination outline I'd been working on and walked to Richard's corner office with dread settling in my stomach like lead.
He was standing at his windows looking out over the city when I entered. Didn't turn around. Didn't acknowledge me beyond a curt "Close the door."
I closed it.
"Sit down, Emilio."
I sat in one of the leather chairs facing his desk. The same chairs where I'd sat three weeks ago when he'd given me the Vitale case. Back when I'd been naive enough to think I could defend Sandro without compromising everything I'd built my identity around.
Richard finally turned. He looked older than I remembered. Tired. He walked to his desk and opened a manila envelope. Pulled out a stack of photographs and spread them across the polished surface.
"These were delivered to the managing partners this morning. Anonymous courier. No return address."
I didn't need to look closely to know what they showed. But I looked anyway.
Me and Sandro arriving at the St. Regis. His hand on my back. Both of us in formal wear, me in the midnight blue tuxedo he'd had made for me. Another photo of us on the dance floor. His arms around me. My head tilted back to look at him. The kind of body language that couldn't be mistaken for anything except what it was.
A third photo showed us leaving together. Sandro's hand on my waist. Me leaning into him slightly. Both of us looking satisfied and intimate in a way that screamed relationship.
There were more. Maybe a dozen total. Whoever took them had been thorough.
"Tell me these aren't what they look like," Richard said quietly.
I could lie. Should lie. Maintain plausible deniability and professional distance.
"I can't do that."
"Emilio—"
"They're exactly what they look like." I met his eyes. "Sandro and I are in a relationship. We have been for a few weeks now."
Richard closed his eyes. Took a breath. Let it out slowly. "Do you understand what you've done? What this means?"
"I understand perfectly. I'm sleeping with my client. It's an ethical violation. Grounds for disciplinary action if the bar association finds out." I kept my voice steady. Professional. "But it doesn't affect my ability to represent him competently."
"Doesn't affect—" Richard stared at me like I'd grown a second head. "Emilio, this destroys your credibility. Every argument you make in court will be questioned. Every motion you file will be scrutinized. Opposing counsel will use this to paint you as compromised. Bought. A mob lawyer in the worst possible sense."
"Then I'll work harder to prove them wrong."
"You can't prove them wrong! The appearance of impropriety is just as damaging as actual impropriety." He picked up one of the photos. The one of us dancing. "This is you at a charity gala dancing with a man accused of organized crime. A man you're defending in court. A man you're clearly in a romantic relationship with. How exactly do you explain this to a jury?"
"I don't explain it. It's not relevant to the case."
"Everything's relevant when your credibility is at stake." Richard set down the photo. Sat heavily in his chair. "I warned you about this. About getting too close. About letting him manipulate you. You didn't listen."
