I’ve lived every day of each passing year with the knowledge in the back of my mind that eventually, I’d be the one to do it—take down the Mancino crime organization. Prosecute Salvatore. Past feelings and relationship aside, my duty to uphold the law comes first.
His very presence in my office shows that time’s coming sooner than I thought.
I collect myself. I force a new breath and notch my hands to my hips, hitting him with my cold, prosecutor stare. He will leave my office now, or I’ll call security.
“You need to go,” I say. “Leave right now, and… we can pretend this never happened.”
Salvatore removes one hand from his pocket and then reaches for the doorknob. For half a second, it seems he’s listening. He’s leaving. Instead, he guides the door to a gentle close, and returns his hand to his pocket.
“It’s better if we’re not overheard.”
“It’s better if you’re not here. S-Salvatore—Mr. Mancino, please leave.”
The weight of his stare presses down on me. Salvatore's eyes have always been distinct—an enthralling mix of oceanic blue and green that are easy to get lost in. The longer he stares, the more he resembles an animal in the wild, tracking me like I’m prey to be served up on a silver platter.
I take a step back and bump into my office chair.
“Now,” I command when he says nothing. I sound anything but authoritative with the way my voice shakes.
Salvatore strolls deeper into the room, stopping on the opposite end of my desk. He’s barely blinked, and he hasn’t taken his eyes off me. He stares for another long moment, and then rubs a hand over his neatly trimmed beard.
“I’m Mr. Mancino now, am I? So professional when we’re so alone.”
“That’s because you shouldn’t be here.”
“I wanted to see you.”
The words roll off his tongue so effortlessly, so casually, it’s like we’re chummy friends about to go for a drink. It shouldn’t surprise me. Even when we dated, he never understood boundaries. He treats personal relationships the same as his mob ties. The positive is that he’s undyingly loyal and protective. But the negative? He expects nothing less than full devotion in return.
For an eighteen-year-old starting university and spreading her wings, it was terrifying.
He and Dad hated each other. I’d been caught in between and couldn’t choose. I couldn’t deal with Salvatore’s controlling ways and the feud he waged with Dad.
As a thirty-year-old woman with a thriving career and endless confidence, it’sstillterrifying. I know Salvatore too well—if he’s coming around to see me, he’s here for a reason. That reason could be deadly.
I breathe out a deep sigh and then grab the handle of my desk phone. I press the button for the overnight security team. The dial tone beeps in my ear and informs me the extension I’m trying to reach doesn’t exist. I swear under my breath and punch in the full seven digit number myself. The recording tells me I’m once again mistaken.
The left side of Salvatore's mouth tips in a half grin. “I wouldn’t bother trying to get a hold of security if I were you. They’re a little preoccupied.”
My stomach sours. “As in you’ve done something to them?”
“As in,” he answers, venturing another step closer, “the line’s been disconnected, and they’ve been tasked with other matters. I needed to talk to you alone, without their interruption.”
He walks around the desk, closing the space between us. He eases the phone handle from my grasp and hangs it up. His fingers brush mine and elicit another dizzy spin out of me. I yank my hand away and retreat to the window, adding more of a buffer.
Keep a clear head. Be direct. Be firm.
He’s not going away until he says whatever it is he’s come to say. Hear him out and then put an end to whatever idea he’s about to propose. It’s best no one ever finds out he’s come here after-hours.
An ADA in bed with the mafia’s not a good look in any way, shape, or form. Even the perception we’re doing deals under the table will cost me the future election for district attorney.
“You have five minutes,” I say, glancing at my delicate rose gold wristwatch.
Salvatore leans against the edge of my desk and folds his arms. Throughout the years I’ve managed to avoid him at any public events and functions, even in nearby cities like South Valley and in our hometown, Westoria. I’ve never once run into him on the streets of Northam. For that I’ve been eternally grateful. But I’ve seen his photographs circulated in theNortham Tribune, and the footage of him sometimes featured on the evening news. I’ve watched from afar as he’s matured into a mafia boss as dangerous as he is handsome.
Nothingcompares to seeing him in person. As teens, Salvatore had the bad boy edge most girls fawn over. As a man, he exudes a dark energy that strikes a startling balance between scary and sexy. It’s in everything he does as he peers at me with his penetrative blue-green eyes, and lets his lips twist into half a grin. The all-black suit he wears has been fitted to perfection on his lean, athletic frame. I don’t need to see him without his shirt off to know he’s all toned muscle and washboard abs.
A thickness forms in my throat, making it difficult to swallow. I fight against the lump and pretend it hasn’t suddenly grown hotter in the room. What the hell has gotten into me?