That evening, seeking an escape from the relentless media circus surrounding their public vindication, Sienna and Marcus took a private town car downtown to a secluded, candlelit Italian trattoria tucked away on a cobblestone lane in Greenwich Village. Stripped of executive suites, boardroom tables, and federal filings, they sat in a cozy corner booth beneath brick archways draped in ivy. Marcus had loosened his tie and rolled his cuffs, while…
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