Page 4 of King of Manhattan

He laughs, a rich, warm sound that sends butterflies exploding through my stomach. "Definitely a compliment.”

As we look over the menus and order, I find myself relaxing despite my earlier reservations. Vince is easy to talk to, yes, but not in a smooth, practiced way. There's an edge to him, a hint of danger that should probably scare me but instead leaves me intrigued. Intrigued, and more than a little excited.

Over dinner, our conversation flows easily. We discuss my recent cases, his business ventures (the legal ones, at least), our favorite spots in the city. I'm surprised to find we have similar tastes in literature and art.

"So, Emily," Vince says as we linger over our main course, "I have to ask. What made you decide to become a pro-bono lawyer? It's not exactly the most lucrative career path."

I take a sip of wine, considering my answer. "I guess I've always had a strong sense of justice. Growing up, I saw how the system could fail people – good people who just needed a chance. I wanted to be someone who could give them that chance."

Vince's expression softens. "That's admirable. Not many people would choose to fight for others over their own comfort."

"What about you?" I ask, suddenly curious. "How did you end up where you are?"

A shadow passes over his face, so quickly I almost miss it. "That's... a long story. Let's just say I didn't have many choices growing up. I did what I had to do to survive, to protect the people I care about."

There's a weight to his words that makes me pause. For a moment, I see past the polished exterior to the man beneath – a man who's seen things, done things that have left their mark.

"And now?" I ask softly. "Do you have choices now?"

His eyes meet mine, and the intensity in them takes my breath away. "I'm starting to think I might," he says, his voice low.

The air between us feels charged, electric. I should look away, should remember all the reasons why getting involved with a man like Vincent Russo is a terrible idea. But I can't seem to break his gaze.

"You know," I say, trying to lighten the mood, "when I agreed to this dinner, I half expected to be interrogated about my cases or pressured to drop certain investigations."

Vince looks genuinely surprised. "Is that what you think of me?"

I shrug, a bit embarrassed. "It's what the rumors would suggest."

He leans back, studying me for a moment. "Emily, I invited you to dinner because I find you fascinating. Not because I want something from you or expect you to compromise your principles. If anything, it's your commitment to your beliefs that intrigues me most. I’ve never met anyone like you."

His words catch me off guard. "I... thank you," I manage. "I'm not used to billionaires being interested in my moral compass."

Vince grins. "Well, I've always been an outlier in the billionaire community. It's lonely at the top, you know."

I can't help but laugh. "Oh, poor you. How do you manage?"

"With great difficulty," he says solemnly, though his eyes are twinkling. "Sometimes I have to console myself by swimming in my pool of gold coins, or taking one of my jets to get gelato in Rome."

As our laughter subsides, I find myself studying him. There's so much more to Vincent Russo than I initially thought. Yes, there's still that aura of danger, the hint of a past shrouded in mystery. But there's also warmth, intelligence, and a wry sense of humor that keeps catching me off guard.

"Where’d you go just now, counselor?" Vince asks, noticing my contemplative look.

I smile, deciding to be honest. "I was just thinking that you're not what I expected, Vince."

"Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

"I'm not sure yet," I admit. "But I think... I think it might be good."

His answering smile is warm enough to melt glaciers. Or my panties. As we move on to dessert – a decadent chocolate soufflé that Vince insists we share – our conversation turns to lighter topics. We trade stories about our most embarrassing moments in court (mine) and boardrooms (his), debate the merits of various New York pizza joints, and discover a shared love for obscure 80s movies.

By the time we finish our coffee, I'm surprised to find that hours have passed. The restaurant has emptied around us, and the staff are discreetly starting to clean up.

"I think that might be our cue to leave," I say, nodding towards a waiter who's hovering nearby.

Vince glances at his watch, looking as surprised as I feel. "I can't remember ever losing track of time like this," he admits.

As we step out into the cool night air, I feel a strange reluctance to leave. Vince turns to me, his expression unreadable.

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