Heart and mind

Ava:

The elevator doors slid shut behind me with a low hiss, sealing in the penthouse—the man—and all the oxygen I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

I exhaled, finally. Long and slow, like I’d just surfaced from underwater.

What the hell is wrong with me?

My heels clicked down the marble lobby, each sound too sharp, too fast, matching the erratic pulse behind my ribs. I kept my head high, expression neutral, the way I was trained. The way I always did when leaving a meeting with someone who could make or break a life. But this—this—wasn’t like any case I’d ever taken.

This wasn’t just a man on trial.

It was a man I couldn’t stop thinking about. And I hated myself for it.

Luciano Moretti was dangerous in all the ways that made good sense run for cover. He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t posture. He simply looked. Watched. Every move felt calculated, every silence like a baited trap. And still, I walked in. Still, I stayed.

Still, I wanted more.

I reached my car and slid into the seat, gripping the steering wheel until my knuckles went white. My skin felt electric. My lips, dry. I’d been so careful tonight—wore the clothes that made me feel sharp but not exposed, heels that gave me power, lipstick with just enough color to say I am not intimidated by you.

But I was. God, I was.

Not in the way I was afraid of him hurting me, not exactly. No, this was worse. It was the fear of unraveling. Of wanting something I shouldn't want.

He never even touched me. That was the sickest part.

He didn’t need to.

The room shifted when he looked at me. The space between us stretched thin, so fragile I was sure if he said the wrong thing—no, the right thing—I’d do something I’d regret.

Like lean in.

Like kiss him.

Like ask him what would happen if I stopped pretending I wasn’t drawn to the monster I’d just agreed to defend.

Because he is a monster. The file I’d just spent hours flipping through at his table confirmed that much. Blood. Deals. Power plays dressed up as business. Men who disappeared. Others who stayed quiet for fear of joining them.

He’s not innocent.

But something in me kept whispering that he might not be that guilty.

And that was all I needed. That one sliver of gray to wedge my conscience into. Justice meant innocent until proven guilty, didn’t it? All I had to do was find the cracks, the technicalities, the breaks. And maybe that's what my head was thinking too. He wasn't clean, just not completely dirty.

I turned the key in the ignition, but didn’t drive. I just sat there in the dark, in the silence, in the sick heat of my own thoughts.

This wasn’t just about the case anymore. It hadn’t been for a while.

It was about the way he looked at me like he already knew the war going on inside my head.

It was about the fact that when he smiled, it wasn’t charming—it was strategic. Measured. Like he was five steps ahead and letting me think I had control just long enough to watch me break.

I was losing my grip. I knew it.

And yet…I didn’t want to stop.

I hated how that felt.

How much I wanted the next meeting. How I was already planning what I’d wear. What argument I’d bring. What line I could walk just close enough to tempt him, and still tell myself it was all part of the job.

He doesn’t scare me.

No, it was so worse.

He excites me.

I leaned my head back against the seat and shut my eyes.

This was bad.

This was the kind of thing that ended careers. Lives. Souls.

And still, I couldn’t wait to see him again.