Ava Rivera

Some cases ruin your career. Others ruin your soul.

I’d spent my entire life avoiding both.

The morning sun slashed through the windows of Knox & Rivera, painting golden bars across the polished floor like some kind of cage. I sipped my coffee, slow and deliberate, trying to drown the anxiety that settled in my chest the moment I opened the headline.

Mafia Syndicate Kingpin Arrested in Federal Sting.

Luciano Moretti.

The name was a strike of thunder against the sterile calm of my office. I’d heard it whispered in law school, muttered in the halls of courtrooms, even growled in drunken confessions from prosecutors who failed to catch him. A ghost in a custom suit. The devil with clean hands. No photos. No fingerprints. Just legends—and the bodies he left behind.

But now? He’d been caught.

I read the article again, heart ticking faster with each line. Weapons trafficking. Financial laundering. Murder conspiracy. No statement. No plea. No team.

Just a vacancy.

And apparently… my name had come up.

I nearly scoffed at the thought. I didn’t take cases like his. I specialized in fraud and finance. Messy, sure—but it was bloodless. Cold. Safe. Not the kind of case where people disappeared. Not the kind of man who could make you vanish for saying the wrong word.

A sharp knock made me flinch.

I glanced up to find Thomas Knox standing in my doorway, jaw tight, phone in hand. He never looked like this—strained. Not even during our most brutal cross-examinations.

“My office. Now.”

I set my mug down and followed without a word. The hallway suddenly felt longer than usual.

Inside, he closed the door, hit speaker on his phone, and said flatly, “She’s here.”

A moment of bone-chilling silence. Then, a voice—low, calm, and rich like velvet soaked in whiskey—cut through the speaker.

“Ms. Rivera.”

Every nerve in my body went rigid.

I didn’t need a name. I knew that voice belonged to him.

Luciano Moretti.

“I’m told you’re the best,” he said, like it was a foregone conclusion.

“I’m told you kill people,” I replied coolly.

Thomas shot me a look, but I didn’t care. I wanted him to know I wouldn’t play games. Not with this man.

“You’ve been misinformed,” Moretti said smoothly. “Still, I want you.”

My spine straightened. “Why?”

“Because you don’t scare easy. And you don’t lose.”

His words dripped with certainty, not flattery. Like he wasn’t hoping I’d agree—he was just waiting for it.

I crossed my arms. “I haven’t said yes.”

“You will.” A pause. “A car will be outside your building at noon.”

Then silence.

The line cut. The air went still.

I stared at the phone like it might bite me.

“Tell me that wasn’t who I think it was,” I said tightly.

Thomas didn’t answer right away. His fingers flexed against the edge of his desk like he wanted to say something smart, but all that came out was, “He asked for you. By name. No one else.”

“I don’t do mob cases.”

“I know.”

“Then why the hell did you take the call?”

“Because if you don’t take this case, someone else will. And we both know you’re the only one smart enough—and ruthless enough—to survive it.”

That made me blink.

Thomas rarely complimented. He never warned.

“I want you to be careful,” he added, softer now. “This man doesn’t want a lawyer. He wants a weapon.”

I left his office with that line echoing in my head.

Back in my office, I closed the blinds. Shut out the city. Shut out the noise.

Just me and the silence.

And him.

His voice played in my memory, over and over. Smooth. Calm. Patient.

I want you.

I’d been around dangerous men before. Men who thought they owned the world. But nothing about Moretti felt loud or careless. His danger was quiet. Surgical. The kind of man who didn’t need to raise his voice—because the room went silent when he walked in.

My phone buzzed with an incoming calendar invite.

Client intake – 12:00 PM. Pickup arranged. Confidential.

It was already happening.

I looked at the time. Two hours.

Two hours to say no.

Two hours to pretend I wasn’t curious.

Because deep down, beneath the logic, beneath the caution—I felt it.

That pull.

Luciano Moretti wasn’t just a case.

He was a choice.

And if I got in that car, I knew exactly what I’d be choosing:

A fire I might not walk away from.