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Chapter ten

Samara

A s we walk out of the restaurant, I turn to look at my new client, taking in his bad-boy demeanor. His dark waves give off the impression that he wakes up looking like this even though he likely uses product to style it that way. Those perfectly muscled arms bulge under his suit jacket, and the tattoo on his chest peers out from beneath his unbuttoned white shirt, practically screaming “bad decisions.”

He thanks the middle-aged man standing beside him, giving him a clap on the shoulder after having agreed to take a selfie. For some reason, it disappoints me. I’d been hoping that the rumors were just that, and that maybe he’d grown up since many of the remarks made about him were written online, but that clearly isn’t the case.

He turns back to face me, his smile falling when he sees my grimace. “Sorry about that,” he apologizes.

“You have to work with me here, Luca,” I tell him, shaking my head in disbelief. “If you want to be taken seriously, you have to at least pretend to be serious. I’ve seen endless photos of you online, always leaving the bars with someone new. That stops now. As long as you’re my client, you play by my rules. I won’t have you making a mockery of me in a courtroom.” I huff.

He rears back as if I’ve slapped him, his dark brows pulling together over those multicolored eyes of his. If he weren’t such a player, I might even find him attractive.

“In case you hadn’t noticed,” Luca says, his tone flat and nostrils flaring slightly, “that man was a fan , not some woman I’m taking home for a consensual night of fun. Wouldn’t it be more embarrassing for you had I ignored him?” he asks, tossing his hands up. “I’m confident you, like the press, have misjudged me. I’m not doing anything to mess with my chances of keeping my daughter.” He speaks confidently, keeping his head held high. “Have a good evening, Samara. I look forward to hearing from you,” he says before heading to his SUV without another look in my direction.

Unease churns in my gut, but I don’t think I’ve misjudged him at all. He’s a playboy. Simple as that, and I wouldn’t be taking this case if it weren’t as a favor to a good friend of mine. If anyone else were asking, I’d have told them no to taking on one of the most infamous goalies in the league right now.

It sounds like a recipe for disaster, and much like in my personal life, I prefer to only play games that I can win. That most definitely extends to the courtroom, though I’m not entirely sure I want him to win based on what I’ve seen so far.

I don’t need the extra stress, but I trust Rome’s opinions, and unfortunately, that little girl is probably better off with Luca De Laurentiis than she is in the system. The younger they are, the better their chances of finding a home, but there are no guarantees.

Hoisting my bag over my shoulder, I turn in the opposite direction to him. Anger simmers below the surface of my skin as I retrieve my cell, opening it up to a message thread with Rome.

I unlock my car door, place my bag on the passenger’s side, and hoist myself into the leather seats of my Range Rover.

Typing out a quick message to Rome, I let him know how I’m really feeling about this little situation he’s gotten me into.

You’re officially on my shit list, Roman Wilde.

Three little bubbles play across my screen, but I don’t wait for his response before tossing my phone in my bag and pulling out of my parking space.

I need another glass of wine, like yesterday.