Ava:
I told myself it was just a meeting. Off the record. Unofficial. Necessary for strategy. I repeated those words like a mantra the entire elevator ride up—each floor taking me further away from reason and deeper into whatever the hell this was turning into. The penthouse elevator was glass, sleek and cold against the city skyline, and the reflection that stared back at me looked far too put-together for someone coming off a twelve-hour research bender. My hair was pinned up, sleek and soft, not an inch of frizz in sight. A little mascara. Lipstick that could pass for “professional” if I squinted. And the blouse? Silky. Low-key luxurious. Not my usual. I’d spent five minutes too long deciding on earrings. And that wasn’t normal. That was insane. You’re mental, I muttered under my breath. Completely mental. Because it wasn’t the case that had me smoothing my skirt and checking my reflection in the mirrored paneling. It was him. Luciano Moretti. God help me. He was everything I should’ve run from the moment he walked into that room. Power personified. Cold. Calculating. A darkness you could feel without ever needing to name it. He was dangerous in the kind of way that didn’t shout—it whispered. And yet, I hadn’t said no. Worse… I’d said yes. I hated that I remembered the way his voice dipped when he spoke my name. That I replayed our meetings after they ended. That some sick part of me liked the tension, the danger, the sheer adrenaline of standing across from someone like him and not backing down. It wasn’t just professional curiosity anymore. And that scared me. Ding. The elevator stopped. My heart did too. The doors slid open, revealing a wide corridor lined with obsidian marble and matte black doors. A single man in a tailored suit stood waiting, hands clasped in front of him like a silent statue. “Ms. Rivera,” he said with a slight nod. “This way.” I followed, heels clicking too loudly on the polished floor, trying to ignore the way my palms felt damp and my throat too tight. The suite was massive—floor-to-ceiling windows, curated art, stone floors that stretched forever. It didn’t feel like a home. It felt like a fortress. Or a trap. He was waiting for me in the center of it all. Luciano stood near the windows, a glass of dark amber liquid in hand, his back to me, looking out over the city like he owned every inch of it. When he finally turned, the air shifted. No suit today. No tie. Just a black shirt, rolled sleeves, ink peeking from beneath his cuffs. Unbuttoned collar. Shadows clinging to him like a second skin. God. I hated the way my stomach flipped. “Ava,” he said smoothly, voice low and even. I lifted my chin, refusing to be the nervous one in the room—even if my pulse begged otherwise. “Mr. Moretti.” A corner of his mouth twitched. “So formal, considering where we are.” “You invited me off the books,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “I assumed that meant discretion, not familiarity.” He stepped closer, deliberate and unhurried. Like he knew every step he took would raise the temperature by a degree. And it did. “You assumed correctly,” he said, voice a shade darker now. “Though I’m beginning to wonder how long that distance between us will last.” My mouth went dry. “This is about the case. That’s all.” “Of course.” Another half-smile. “Then let’s talk.” He gestured to the long black table, where a spread of files already waited—some I recognized, others I didn’t. I moved toward them gratefully, needing something to ground me. But as I sat, I could feel his eyes on me. Watching. Measuring. Like a man who already knew the ending but wanted to watch it unfold anyway. I hated how aware I was of him. Of the way he moved. The quiet strength in his voice. The way he didn’t need to raise it to take up all the space in the room. “You’ve read through the March 18th report,” he said. Not a question. “Yes.” “And?” “There are inconsistencies,” I admitted. “The timeline doesn’t align with the transport records. Two witnesses are unreliable. And the medical report was signed off by a coroner who was already under investigation.” He smiled. But it wasn’t pleased. It was something else. Sharper. “Exactly the threads I hoped you’d pull.” “Don’t mistake that for loyalty,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “I’m not here to prove your innocence. I’m here to dismantle whatever the prosecution can’t make stick.” His eyes glittered. “And in the process, defend a man you believe is guilty.” I froze. He wasn’t wrong. And the worst part was—he wasn’t smug about it. Just honest. Brutally so. “I’m here to do my job,” I said quietly. Luciano stepped closer—close enough that the air between us felt electric. “And I’m here,” he murmured, “to watch how far you’re willing to go to win.” My breath caught. Because this wasn’t just about legal strategy anymore. This was a game. One I didn’t start—but one I was now playing willingly. And God help me—I wanted to win.Luciano:She was close.Too close.Close enough for her scent to crawl down my throat—something expensive and sharp, layered over red wine and fear she was trying so hard to choke down. I could feel the heat coming off her skin, the tension in her limbs as her fists curled into the front of my shirt like she didn’t even realize she was touching me.Her breath hitched.Mine didn’t.Not outwardly.Inside, I burned.I didn’t move. I didn’t touch her. Not yet. I let her press against me, let her feel the war she was stepping into. Because that’s what this was now—a war. And she was the most dangerous weapon in it. She just didn’t know whose side she was really fighting on yet.“I can do this,” she said, her voice a whisper on the edge of a confession. “I will do this.”There it was.Conviction.Determination.Madness.I looked into her eyes and saw all three reflected back at me. But underneath them… a flicker of something else. Something she hadn’t given a name to yet.She was unraveling
Ava:The elevator opened directly into his penthouse. No keycard. No security. Just silence and dim lights casting long shadows over marble and glass.He was already there.Leaning against the bar like he’d been waiting all night.Luciano Moretti.Pressed shirt unbuttoned at the collar, sleeves rolled to his elbows, a tumbler of scotch hanging from his hand like a loaded weapon. The bottle sat beside him—half full, glinting amber beneath the low pendant light. His eyes met mine across the open space, glassy and unreadable.Cold. Calm. Controlled.Except… not entirely.There was something simmering beneath the surface. Something sharp and dark and volatile.I stepped inside slowly, the file clutched to my chest like it could protect me. My coat hung loosely from my arms, my heels soft on the floors. His gaze dropped for a fraction of a second. Quick. Unforgiving. Like a blade glinting in the dark.“You’re late,” he said.“I didn’t realize there was a clock ticking,” I replied, voice th
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 sic
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
Luciano:She arrived like a slow-moving threat. Controlled. Composed. Beautiful in a way that begged to be ruined.I didn’t move when the elevator doors opened. I wanted to watch her walk into the lion’s den on her own, heels clicking against the marble, that pristine expression barely concealing the war brewing underneath. She was dressed like she meant business—sleek, clean lines, lipstick just a touch too bold for the courtroom. And yet... beneath all that polish, I saw her.Nervous. Flushed.She’d worked harder on her appearance today. Not for the case. Not for the law.For me.That should’ve satisfied me. Should’ve been enough of a confirmation that she was cracking, slipping into my orbit without realizing how deep she already was.But it wasn’t.I wanted more.She stopped a few feet away, eyes cutting through the air between us. That voice of hers—steady and stubborn—called me Mr. Moretti like it was supposed to keep distance. She still thought names and rules could cage what w
Ava: I told myself it was just a meeting. Off the record. Unofficial. Necessary for strategy. I repeated those words like a mantra the entire elevator ride up—each floor taking me further away from reason and deeper into whatever the hell this was turning into. The penthouse elevator was glass, sleek and cold against the city skyline, and the reflection that stared back at me looked far too put-together for someone coming off a twelve-hour research bender. My hair was pinned up, sleek and soft, not an inch of frizz in sight. A little mascara. Lipstick that could pass for “professional” if I squinted. And the blouse? Silky. Low-key luxurious. Not my usual. I’d spent five minutes too long deciding on earrings. And that wasn’t normal. That was insane. You’re mental, I muttered under my breath. Completely mental. Because it wasn’t the case that had me smoothing my skirt and checking my reflection in the mirrored paneling. It was him. Luciano Moretti. God help me. He was everyth
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
Ava: I spread the file across my dining table like it was scripture and I was desperate for salvation. Three hundred and twelve pages. Twelve separate charges. Five years of surveillance logs. Two confirmed murders. At least a dozen unconfirmed. Bribery. Racketeering. Weapons trafficking. A long trail of black ink and red tape that painted a man guilty a hundred times over. And yet, here I was. Defending him. I pulled my hair into a knot, fingers trembling with the weight of everything I’d already read. The evidence was overwhelming on paper—but paper lies. Paper tells only what the writer wants you to see. And I’d made a career of reading what wasn’t there. Luciano Moretti wasn’t sloppy. Every step felt intentional, every transaction two degrees removed from him. Shell companies. Dead-end witnesses. Phone calls routed through third parties. The DA’s case wasn’t airtight. It was confident. It was built on fear and convenience. But airtight? No. And in those cracks—those barely
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