Miscalculation

Ava:

I woke up with a dry mouth and the bitter weight of regret coating my tongue. The empty wine bottle on the counter glared at me in the morning light like a poor excuse. I rubbed my temples and sank deeper into the couch cushion, staring blankly at the ceiling, waiting for the world to stop spinning.

Everything in me said walk away.

But I hadn’t.

And I still didn’t want to.

Luciano Moretti’s eyes haunted me—cold, calculated, unbothered. That man didn’t beg for help. He summoned it. Even when he said nothing, he commanded. And I hated that a part of me was still chewing on every second of that meeting—his voice, his presence, the implications.

I hated that he unsettled me.

Even worse, I hated that I was intrigued.

I pulled myself upright with a groan and padded toward the kitchen. The floor was cold against my bare feet, grounding me. I poured myself coffee—black, no sugar, no softness—and stared out the window like it might offer answers.

The truth was, I should’ve said no. I should’ve let someone else take the fall for defending a man like him.

But I didn’t. And I knew why.

Because justice wasn’t about saints and monsters. It was about what you could prove. It was the cracks in the foundation, the loopholes in the language, the angles no one else saw. And that was where I thrived. In the margins. In the gray.

He didn’t need to be clean.

He just had to not be entirely dirty.

That’s the part that made my blood stir. The part where I could win.

People assumed criminal defense was about morality. It wasn’t. It was about skill. Manipulation of perception. Power.

And Luc Moretti was a man who understood power better than anyone I’d ever met.

I curled my fingers around the warm ceramic mug and leaned against the counter, staring into the black surface like I could divine something in it. I thought of my father. Of the warnings I ignored. Of the name I wore like a scar.

Rivera.

He’d told me once, The courtroom isn’t where you find the truth—it’s where you control it.

And I could control this. I would.

Because deep down, the fear was a lie. The temptation, the curiosity, even the disgust—it all led to one thing: the hunger to win.

I marched back to my bedroom with a new kind of purpose twisting in my gut. Stripped off my clothes, turned the shower up scorching hot, and let it burn away the doubt. The steam filled my lungs like a drug, and when I emerged, I was a woman made of steel.

Black slacks. Gray blouse. No frills. Hair slicked back. Heels sharp enough to draw blood.

I moved through the apartment like a machine, each movement deliberate, silent. The phone waited on the kitchen island like a coiled serpent.

I didn’t hesitate.

One ring.

Then silence.

Then him.

“Ms. Rivera.”

Low. Calm. Smooth like smoke laced with warning.

“Mr. Moretti,” I returned evenly, not letting an ounce of emotion bleed through.

“You’ve made a decision,” he said. Not a question. A statement of fact. He already knew.

“I have.”

Silence.

“And?”

“I’ll take the case,” I said clearly. “But I want to be absolutely clear—I don’t work for you. I represent you. That means I’ll call the shots in court, and you’ll answer to me when it comes to strategy. If you want someone to smile and nod while you play God, hire someone else.”

He paused. I could hear the slight inhale on the other end of the line.

Then: “You have sharp teeth, counselor.”

“You haven’t seen me bite yet.”

A chuckle—dark and quiet, like something old and lethal shifting beneath the surface. “I look forward to it.”

“But let’s get one thing straight, Mr. Moretti.” My voice turned to flint. “I’m not here to prove your innocence. I’m here to make the prosecution bleed trying.”

There was a beat of silence that felt like a hand sliding around my throat.

Then: “A woman who understands how the game is played. I knew I chose correctly.”

The call ended.

I stood there for a long moment, phone still in hand, heart racing.

This wasn’t about good or evil. It wasn’t about absolution. It was about survival. Reputation. Power.

And if he thought I was going to roll over for him—

He’d made a grave miscalculation.