Luciano Moretti

The black town car was waiting at precisely noon, idling at the curb like it belonged there. Polished, tinted, anonymous. A driver stepped out and opened the door without a word.

This was already a mistake.

Still, I got in.

I told myself it was curiosity. Professionalism. A chance to say no to his face. But the truth was darker—uglier. Some deep, buried part of me wanted to see the man who made judges stutter and prosecutors disappear. I wanted to look into the eyes of a monster and not blink.

The drive was silent. The windows didn’t show me much—just blurred city streets and my own reflection. I studied myself. Perfect hair. Sharp blazer. The exact shade of lipstick that said competent, not seductive. No one could accuse me of playing his game.

The car turned off the main roads and slipped into a narrow alley between two buildings I didn’t recognize. My pulse quickened.

Then we stopped.

The driver opened my door. “Inside, Miss Rivera.”

It wasn’t a request.

I stepped out and into the building’s mouth, greeted by a pair of towering men in suits that fit too well to be street muscle—but their eyes said otherwise.

One nodded. “This way.”

I followed them down a dim corridor, past bare walls and expensive silence. Everything was clean, but there was no warmth. This wasn’t an office. It was a lair.

They stopped at a door and opened it. Then stepped aside.

And there he was.

Luciano Moretti.

Sitting at the head of a long oak table like a king in exile, black button-down sleeves rolled to his forearms, silver watch glinting like a weapon. Dark eyes lifted to mine—not surprised. Like he’d been waiting.

The room was too quiet. For a man with so much noise trailing behind him—death, destruction, syndicate whispers and power plays—I expected more. More guards. More drama. Something cinematic.

But no. Just him.

Luciano Moretti sat there studying me like he owned the damn floor. No cuffs. No visible security. Just a file in front of him and a glass of water he hadn’t touched. The blinds were half-drawn, letting in just enough of Manhattan’s gray skyline to slice across his profile—cutting light and shadow into sharp geometry.

My heels clicked once, twice, then silence as the door shut behind me.

He didn’t look up right away. Didn’t need to. He already knew I was here. Knew I’d come.

I hated that.

"You’re taller than I expected," he said finally, voice smooth, low—like a threat wrapped in silk.

"And you’re exactly what I expected," I answered, crossing my arms. "Uncuffed, arrogant, and already wasting my time."

He smiled then, faintly. Like I’d passed a test he wasn’t sure I’d even take.

“Counselor Rivera,” he said, finally standing. “The infamous legal prodigy. Did you fight your firm to take this case, or did they volunteer you as tribute?”

He was taller than I thought—well over six feet, all lean muscle beneath tailored charcoal gray. Steel blue eyes, too calm. Like they’d seen more than any man should, and decided it wasn’t worth flinching over. His hair was dark and swept back with just enough disorder to look deliberate.

Dangerous men rarely came this well packaged.

“I didn’t take this case. You requested me. By name. Why?”

Luc tilted his head. “Curious. I thought lawyers hated questions.”

“We hate wasting time more.”

Silence stretched. He walked closer, deliberately slow, and I held my ground even though every cell in my body suddenly screamed move. Not fear—no. This was something colder. More alert. A high-wire sense that the man in front of me was far more dangerous than anything the media had painted.

“I like precision,” he said finally, stopping just a few feet from me. “You don’t bury the truth in theatrics like the others. You cut straight to the artery.”

“Is that what you think I do? Cut?” My voice was steady, even though something about the way he looked at me felt like a scalpel peeling away skin.

“I think you’re sharp enough to hurt someone if you wanted to.”

“You don’t know anything about me.”

“No,” he agreed. “But I will.”

I stared at him. “You’re facing a laundry list of charges that would take me all afternoon to recite. RICO. Trafficking. Money laundering. Murder conspiracy. You need a miracle, not a smart-ass defense attorney with a spine.”

His eyes flicked to my mouth, then back up. “What I need,” he said, tone darker now, “is someone who won’t flinch when the blood starts to slip.”

I felt the weight of his words like heat on my skin. But I wouldn’t let him rattle me.

“You don’t scare me.”

Luc smiled again—this time, not faint at all.

“Good,” he said. “Because I don’t want obedience, Ava. I want brilliance. I want someone who can help me win this war while pretending we’re playing chess.”

A pause.

“I want you.”

It wasn’t flirtation. It wasn’t desire. It was… strategy. A move. A power play dressed up in fine fabrics.

And I hated that it made something twist low in my stomach.

“You think flattery is going to win me over?”

“No,” he said calmly. “I think you’re already intrigued. You just hate that you are.”

The worst part?

He was right.

I pulled the file from the table and turned without another word.

“I’ll review your case. If there’s any truth to the federal violations, you won’t get a fair trial—not with your reputation.” I looked back at him. “And if I find out you’re using this to manipulate the system—me—I’ll walk. Faster than you can say guilty.”

He looked almost amused. “You really are everything they say.”

I opened the door, heart pounding even though I’d trained myself out of nerves years ago.

He didn’t follow.

But as the door clicked shut behind me, I swore I heard his voice—quiet, just loud enough to carry.

“You’ll come back.”

And I knew—God help me—I would.