Clean Salvation

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 me.

He shouldn’t have gotten to me like that. Not with his calm, clinical tone. Not with that calculating smile that never quite reached his eyes. But he did. And I hated it.

I drank again. Slower this time. The bitterness bloomed across my tongue, familiar and sharp.

I should’ve walked away.

From the moment I saw his name in that file, I should’ve said no. Too dangerous. Too messy. Too him.

I wasn’t a public defender. I didn’t take high-risk clients. I didn’t need to build a reputation—I was the reputation. I had judges’ respect and rival firms’ fear. I had everything I’d worked for.

And still… I would said yes.

Why?

Because something in me tightened when I looked at his case file. Because something in me went quiet when I saw him in person.

Not fear. Not even lust.

Recognition.

And that terrifies me more than anything.

I sank into the couch, legs curled beneath me, wine bottle balanced between my knees. The lights stayed off. I didn’t want to see the reflection of my own face in the windows. I didn’t want to confront the way my body had betrayed me when he looked at me like I was a chess piece he’d already captured.

He knew who I was.

Not just my name, not just my career—me.

The girl I buried. The daughter of a man who used to run guns through the back alleys of the Bronx. The woman who clawed her way out of that shadow with bloodied hands and a mouth full of rules.

I worked too hard to be clean.

But Luc... he makes me feel like I never really was.

I thought I was over that. The shame. The constant hunger to prove myself. But one meeting with him, and I’m spiraling. Like I’m fifteen again, hiding arrest records under floorboards and praying no one ever finds out who my father really was.

And maybe that’s what’s pulling me toward him.

He’s not hiding anything.

Luc is the embodiment of everything I tried to escape: power without apology, darkness without shame. He doesn’t pretend to be clean—he just makes you wonder if you ever really were.

I took another long sip, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, unbothered by the smear of lipstick on my skin.

I should walk away.

I could send the firm a statement of conflict. They wouldn’t question it. They’d understand. Hell, they’d probably respect me more for refusing a case tied to a mafia kingpin.

But I won’t.

Because the truth is—I want to see what happens when someone like him asks for salvation.

And I want to know what it says about me that I might be willing to give it.

Even now, sitting in the dark with wine-stained lips and throbbing feet, I can still feel the echo of his presence. Like the low hum of electricity in a storm that hasn't broken yet. Like something inevitable.

Luciano Moretti is going to ruin me.

And for reasons I can’t even begin to admit—I don’t think I mind.