Lawless Hearts

The black town car was waiting at precisely noon, idling at the curb like it belonged there. Polished, tinted, anonymous. A driver stepped out and opened the door without a word.This was already a mistake.Still, I got in.I told myself it was curiosity. Professionalism. A chance to say no to his face. But the truth was darker—uglier. Some deep, buried part of me wanted to see the man who made judges stutter and prosecutors disappear. I wanted to look into the eyes of a monster and not blink.The drive was silent. The windows didn’t show me much—just blurred city streets and my own reflection. I studied myself. Perfect hair. Sharp blazer. The exact shade of lipstick that said competent, not seductive. No one could accuse me of playing his game.The car turned off the main roads and slipped into a narrow alley between two buildings I didn’t recognize. My pulse quickened.Then we stopped.The driver opened my door. “Inside, Miss Rivera.”It wasn’t a request.I stepped out and into the

Ava:The door slammed shut behind me with more force than necessary. I didn’t care. The sound echoed through the apartment like an exhale I’d been holding in since I left his office.I kicked off my heels—black Louboutins with pointed toes that felt like medieval torture devices by the end of the day. One hit the wall. The other landed somewhere near the kitchen. Good. Let them stay there. Let everything fall apart tonight.I walked barefoot across the hardwood, shrugging off my blazer and tossing it over a chair I never sat in. My apartment was quiet, pristine, curated like the rest of my life. But right now, I hated its order. I hated how it pretended I wasn’t unraveling.In the kitchen, I yanked open the fridge and pulled out a half-full bottle of red—Malbec, overpriced. I didn’t bother with a glass. I drank straight from the bottle like it might burn away the memory of his voice, his eyes, the way he watched me like he already knew what I would do next.Luciano Moretti.God help m

Ava:I woke up with a dry mouth and the bitter weight of regret coating my tongue. The empty wine bottle on the counter glared at me in the morning light like a poor excuse. I rubbed my temples and sank deeper into the couch cushion, staring blankly at the ceiling, waiting for the world to stop spinning.Everything in me said walk away.But I hadn’t.And I still didn’t want to.Luciano Moretti’s eyes haunted me—cold, calculated, unbothered. That man didn’t beg for help. He summoned it. Even when he said nothing, he commanded. And I hated that a part of me was still chewing on every second of that meeting—his voice, his presence, the implications.I hated that he unsettled me.Even worse, I hated that I was intrigued.I pulled myself upright with a groan and padded toward the kitchen. The floor was cold against my bare feet, grounding me. I poured myself coffee—black, no sugar, no softness—and stared out the window like it might offer answers.The truth was, I should’ve said no. I shou

Ava:I wore black.Not because it made me feel powerful.Because it made me feel contained.The truth was, I didn’t know what version of myself would show up at that table. The lawyer who tore witnesses apart with precision and grace? The daughter of a man who once ran in the same circles as the man I was now representing? Or just a woman who hadn't slept, hadn’t stopped thinking, hadn’t stopped feeling—since I heard his voice over the phone.Luciano Moretti.I’d rehearsed how I’d enter.Cool. Composed. Indifferent.But my palms still tingled as I stepped into the building—his building. The kind with too much glass and too little soul. The kind of place where power wasn’t whispered—it was stitched into the air like smoke and expensive cologne.Security didn’t stop me. They were expecting me.Of course they were.The elevator doors closed behind me with a hiss, sealing me in with the mirrored version of myself. Jaw tight. Eyes too sharp. Spine too straight. A perfect mask.But masks sl

Luciano:She called. Just like I knew she would.Not immediately. Not impulsively. No, Ava Rivera was too disciplined for that. She needed time to convince herself that she still had a choice. That she wasn’t already mine from the second we met.But the moment came. A clipped, professional message. She was in. Fully. Irrevocably.I smiled—slow, cold, and amused. The kind of smile that never touched my eyes.The pieces were falling into place.I stood in the center of my study, the lights low, the air heavy with the scent of aged leather and smoke. My glass of scotch sat untouched on the table beside me, condensation bleeding into the wood. Outside, the rain had started to fall, painting silver veins down the window like spider cracks in glass. The city was loud, reckless, and alive—but here, in this room, I felt only the tightening stillness of control.She had made her move.And now it was my turn.“Report,” I said without turning.Dominic, my second, stepped forward from the shadows