A crack

Ava:

A full bottle of wine deep and surrounded by a sea of papers, I should’ve stopped. Should’ve closed the file, turned off the lamp, and gone to bed like someone with boundaries. But boundaries were for sane people. Rational people.

Not me.

Not anymore.

Because between the transcripts and the redacted surveillance summaries, I found it.

A crack.

A real, actual crack. Hidden beneath layers of procedural sludge and carefully crafted distractions—but there it was. A misstep. A detail someone thought wouldn’t matter, that no one would look twice at.

But I did.

And it wasn’t small.

This wasn’t some minor filing error or a questionable search warrant. This was big. Like case-dismissing big. A lie, repeated. An inconsistency in the witness statement that contradicted a timestamp so clean, it practically screamed fabricated.

My heart slammed against my ribs. My fingertips were numb.

I stared at it, reading it over and over again, just to be sure. Just to feel that rush, that sick, electric thrill. This was the kind of thing that blew trials apart. Got evidence tossed. Created holes wide enough for devils to walk free.

And yet… I was excited.

God help me, I was buzzing.

Adrenaline roared through my blood like a drug. My skin was flushed, my breath shallow. And instead of doing what I should—what any good attorney with a bottle of merlot in her system should—I picked up my phone and did the stupidest, most telling thing possible.

I called him.

Not his team. Not the firm. Not some faceless legal liaison.

Luciano Moretti.

My finger hovered over his number for exactly half a second before I hit dial.

He answered on the second ring, his voice a low, amused rumble that crawled down my spine like silk and smoke.

“Well, well,” he murmured. “To what do I owe the pleasure, counselor?”

“I found something.” My voice was breathless, trembling with barely contained excitement. “Big.”

A pause.

Then: “Come to the penthouse. Now.”

“I’ve been drinking,” I blurted out before I could stop myself. “I can’t drive.”

Another beat of silence. “Then don’t. I’ll send a car. Ten minutes.”

Click.

He hung up.

No discussion. No hesitation.

Just that commanding tone that made my chest tighten and my legs weak. And I hated how it affected me. Hated that I was already reaching for my coat, for my bag, for my sense of reason that was slipping through my fingers like sand.

I caught my reflection in the mirror near the front door.

Hair slightly mussed from hours of work, cheeks flushed, lips stained faintly with wine. I looked like a woman on the edge—of something dangerous. Something inevitable.

God, I was losing it.

This wasn’t how I operated. I didn’t make impulsive late-night visits to the penthouses of crime lords. I didn’t dial the devil and ask to walk into his den.

But that’s exactly what I was doing.

Because the case mattered.

And because—terrifyingly—I wanted to see him again.

The car arrived just as he promised, sleek and black with a driver who didn’t make eye contact. I slid into the back seat, my palms damp, heart still galloping in my chest.

I clutched the file to my chest like a lifeline.

This wasn’t just a strategy meeting.

It was something else now.

Something darker.

I could feel it tightening around me with every block we passed. Every second that brought me closer to him.

Closer to the line I knew I couldn’t uncross.

And I was already too far gone to stop.