I wasn’t backing away

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 thinner than I wanted. Too much wine. Too much adrenaline. Not enough sense.

“There’s always a clock ticking, counselor,” he said, pouring himself another drink. “But tonight, I’ll allow it.”

I swallowed, throat dry.

The room felt too warm. Or maybe it was me. My skin was flushed from wine and nerves and his eyes—God, his eyes. Piercing blue and shadowed, glassy with scotch and yet impossibly sharp. Like he saw everything. Every hesitation. Every weakness.

I crossed the room, setting the file on the edge of the bar between us.

He didn’t look down.

He kept staring at me.

“Read it,” I said. “It’s in there. A contradiction. Clean enough to cast doubt on the entire testimony. Maybe enough to trigger a suppression hearing.”

He finally looked at the folder.

But only for a second.

Then those eyes were back on mine.

Unblinking.

Measuring.

"You’re good," he murmured. "Better than I expected."

“Didn’t take you for the type to underestimate women,” I said, trying to sound flippant, but my voice was tighter now. Fraying around the edges.

“I don’t,” he replied. “But you’re not just a woman. You’re you. You’re a fucking war in heels.”

The words hit like heat. Low and slow, curling beneath my skin.

I felt dizzy.

From the wine. From the thrill of the discovery. From him.

He took a slow sip of scotch, his tongue pressing to the inside of his cheek when he swallowed, watching me like I was something he could tear open with his teeth.

And I just stood there—frozen in place, body humming, heart a violent pulse against my ribs.

“You didn’t have to come,” he said.

“I wanted to.”

That was the truth. I hated how much it was the truth.

He took a step forward.

So did I.

And then—I don’t know what snapped in me. Maybe it was the exhaustion, the wine, the file I’d poured myself into. Maybe it was his eyes, or the low, insufferable way he watched me like he already knew what I’d do before I did it.

But suddenly, I was in front of him.

Too close.

Clutching his shirt, pressing my fingers into the expensive fabric like it could anchor me.

His chest was solid heat beneath my palms.

His breath—scotch and something darker—washed over me.

“I can do this,” I said, looking up into his eyes.

“I will do this.”

His hand twitched at his side, but he didn’t touch me.

Not yet.

My body brushed against his, and I felt the moment I crossed the invisible line between danger and something far worse.

Obsession.

Temptation.

“I believe you,” he said, voice low and lethal. “But do you?”

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t.

Because I’d just realized how dangerously close I was—how little air separated us. His body was all sharp edges and silent promises, and I was pressed against it, breath caught somewhere between fear and desire.

And I wasn’t backing away.

Not this time.