The meeting room at Caruso & Associates always smelled the same: polished wood, new leather, and stale coffee. It was the scent of power, ambition, and long hours—a combination I'd grown used to over the past five years.
But today, that scent felt suffocating.
Sitting at the far end of the long mahogany table, I stared at the closed folder in front of me. My name, Elena Moretti, was printed neatly across the top in black ink. A formality, of course. I wasn't the one on trial. But for some reason, the beige file felt heavier than any I'd held before.
And I hadn't even opened it yet.
"You haven't looked at the case, have you?" Mr. Caruso said, breaking the silence.
I glanced up at him. At sixty-two, the man was still a commanding presence, his tailored navy suit and neatly combed white hair giving him the air of someone who never doubted himself. But the usual warmth in his dark brown eyes was absent today, replaced by something sharper. He was waiting.
"I don't need to," I replied, keeping my voice steady. "I already know who it's about. Everyone knows who Lorenzo Santini is."
Caruso tilted his head slightly, the faintest trace of a smile playing on his lips. "Ah, that's true. But do you know why he chose you?"
I blinked, taken aback. "What do you mean, he chose me?"
His fingers tapped lightly on the table as he leaned forward, his voice calm but deliberate. "You know how men like Santini operate. Nothing is left to chance. He studied our firm. Our lawyers. And he insisted it be you."
I let out a short, nervous laugh. "You're joking. Why me?"
"Because you're brilliant, Elena," he said simply. "Your work on the Martini case caught his attention. The way you dismantled the opposition's argument, found weaknesses no one else noticed… That's what he wants."
"And what does he want, exactly?"
Caruso's lips curved into a tight smile. "Freedom. He wants to walk out of this murder trial a free man, and he believes you're his best chance."
I felt my stomach twist.
"You can't be serious." I shook my head. "Lorenzo Santini isn't just another client, Mr. Caruso. He's a mafia boss. Everyone knows it, even if no one can prove it. Working with him isn't just risky—it's career suicide. He doesn't follow rules; he breaks them. I'm a lawyer, not a magician."
Caruso's smile faded, and his expression hardened. "I'm not asking you to perform magic, Elena. I'm asking you to do what you're good at: win."
"And if I lose?"
"Then we all lose," he replied bluntly. "But I don't think you will. Men like Santini don't pick losers."
His words sent a chill down my spine.
"Even if I win," I countered, "what does that say about us as a firm? Representing someone like him? How does that look to our clients, our reputation?"
Caruso leaned back in his chair, resting his elbows on the armrests. "It says we're not afraid to take on the toughest cases. It says we're the best. And it says that Elena Moretti is the brightest star in this firm."
I held his gaze, my frustration simmering just beneath the surface. I wanted to argue, to refuse outright, but I could already see the answer in his eyes. He wasn't giving me a choice.
"What if I say no?" I asked quietly.
He raised a brow, his voice taking on a softer, almost paternal tone. "Why would you? Because you're scared? That's not you, Elena. I hired you because you were bold. Ambitious. Different. Don't prove me wrong."
I gritted my teeth, my jaw tightening. He knew exactly how to push my buttons.
"Fine," I said finally, my voice clipped. "I'll meet him. But I'm not promising anything."
Caruso smiled, satisfied. "That's all I ask."
The detention center was an imposing, brutalist structure on the edge of the city, its gray walls casting long shadows under the afternoon sun. As the black car pulled up to the entrance, I felt the tension knotting tighter in my stomach.
The folder lay open on my lap now, its pages filled with the kind of details that made my skin crawl:
Lorenzo Santini. Alleged head of the Santini crime family. Charged with first-degree murder. Suspected of arms trafficking, extortion, money laundering.
And yet, here I was, about to meet him.
I flipped to the first page, where a photo stared back at me. Lorenzo Santini, 35 years old. Dark hair, slicked back. A sharp jawline, clean-shaven. His suit was perfectly tailored, the kind of elegance that spoke of power and control.
But it was his eyes that unsettled me. They were dark, intense, and strangely calm—eyes that seemed to see everything, to size you up with a single glance. Even through a photograph, they made me feel exposed.
I closed the folder and exhaled sharply. My reflection in the car's window stared back at me: sharp black blazer, crisp white blouse, hair pulled into a tight bun. Professional. Unshakable. That's what I told myself, at least.
The driver opened my door, and I stepped out, my heels clicking against the pavement.
The air felt heavy here, as if the building itself was a living thing, watching, waiting.
Every step toward the entrance felt slower than the last, the weight of the decision I'd made pressing harder on my shoulders.
It's just another client, I told myself. Just another case.
But deep down, I already knew the truth. Nothing about Lorenzo Santini was going to be "just" anything.