They shoved me into the Vitale study and shut the door. His thumb found my pulse and the room stopped.
Salvatore Vitale: 90% scowl, 10% old scars, 100% citrus-and-tobacco magnetism. He owns a mansion, men with guns, and a reputation that makes people whisper my name like a threat. He steadies me like I’m glass and claims me like I’m his last mistake.
I went there to follow a lead. I stayed because he brewed tea and made me read in a library he built for me. He bandaged my hand. He kissed me like an apology and a verdict. We kept each other awake. Then someone took a photo—through a curtain, in the dark—and HR called it leverage. An anonymous message demanded noon. Meet alone.
They want me to choose: my job, my cases, the survivors who trusted me—or the man who will not let me go. He says locking me away will keep me alive. I say exile is a kind of death.
He promises he’ll stand between me and the world. He promises he’ll stay. We’ll fight for my work and for us. But noon comes fast. Who will pay if we lose?
Salvatore Vitale: 90% scowl, 10% old scars, 100% citrus-and-tobacco magnetism. He owns a mansion, men with guns, and a reputation that makes people whisper my name like a threat. He steadies me like I’m glass and claims me like I’m his last mistake.
I went there to follow a lead. I stayed because he brewed tea and made me read in a library he built for me. He bandaged my hand. He kissed me like an apology and a verdict. We kept each other awake. Then someone took a photo—through a curtain, in the dark—and HR called it leverage. An anonymous message demanded noon. Meet alone.
They want me to choose: my job, my cases, the survivors who trusted me—or the man who will not let me go. He says locking me away will keep me alive. I say exile is a kind of death.
He promises he’ll stand between me and the world. He promises he’ll stay. We’ll fight for my work and for us. But noon comes fast. Who will pay if we lose?