The detention center loomed over me like a fortress, its gray concrete walls stretching high into the sky, jagged with barbed wire that glinted in the weak afternoon sunlight. The building seemed to draw all warmth out of the air, leaving a faint chill that settled into my skin as I stepped out of the car.
I paused at the gate, clutching my folder like a shield, and looked around. The air felt heavy here, thick with an unspoken menace that seemed to seep through the cracks of the building. The guard station buzzed as the security officer scanned me with a cold, mechanical efficiency.
"Name?" he asked, barely looking up.
"Elena Moretti," I replied, forcing my voice to remain steady.
He glanced at his clipboard, then at me. His eyes lingered just a moment too long, curiosity evident in his raised eyebrow. "You're here for Santini?"
"Yes."
The guard said nothing more, but his expression spoke volumes. I could feel the judgment, the silent question of why a young, professional woman like me would willingly step into the lion's den.
The gate buzzed, and I stepped through, following another guard down a long, narrow corridor. The sound of my heels on the tile floor echoed, each step loud and sharp in the oppressive silence.
"You've got ten minutes," the guard said gruffly as we approached the visitor room. His voice carried the same faint judgment I'd seen at the gate. "Santini's been cooperative so far, but…"
"But what?" I asked, my grip tightening on the folder.
The guard smirked, though there was no humor in it. "He has a way of… getting into people's heads. Just be careful."
I didn't answer, but his words settled uncomfortably in my chest.
The door buzzed open, and I stepped into the visitor room. The space was small and sterile, with gray walls that seemed to press in on me. A thick pane of reinforced glass divided the room in half, and two bolted chairs faced each other across a metal table.
I didn't have long to process the surroundings before the far door opened, and he walked in.
Lorenzo Santini.
Even in the orange jumpsuit, stripped of his power and status, he was impossible to ignore. His presence filled the room the moment he entered, as if the air shifted to accommodate him. His dark hair was slightly tousled, his jaw cleanly shaven, and his posture confident—too confident for a man in his position.
He paused for a moment, his gaze sweeping over me with unsettling precision. Then he stepped forward, taking his seat across the glass partition.
"Ms. Moretti," he said, his voice low and smooth. "I've been looking forward to meeting you."
I sat down slowly, setting the folder on the table in front of me. I hadn't even opened my mouth, and already he was trying to take control of the conversation.
"You're even more beautiful than I imagined," he added, leaning back in his chair with infuriating ease.
I stiffened, my fingers tightening around the edge of the folder. "Flattery isn't going to help your case, Mr. Santini."
He smiled, slow and deliberate. "Call me Lorenzo."
"I'll stick with Mr. Santini," I said coolly. "Let's not waste time."
His eyes glinted with amusement, but he didn't argue. "Fair enough."
For a moment, he studied me in silence. His gaze wasn't leering or predatory, but it was unsettling all the same. It felt like he was dissecting me, peeling back layers to see what lay beneath.
"You're different," he said finally.
I raised an eyebrow. "Different how?"
"The others," he replied, waving a hand dismissively. "They were all the same. Cowards, frauds, so desperate to make a name for themselves that they couldn't see the bigger picture. But you…" His lips curved into a faint smile. "You don't scare easily. I can tell."
I resisted the urge to scoff. "You don't know anything about me."
"Oh, but I do," he said, leaning forward slightly. "I wouldn't have asked for you if I didn't."
I clenched my jaw, refusing to let his words unnerve me. "You're being charged with first-degree murder," I said, flipping open the folder. "The prosecution claims they have eyewitness testimony, surveillance footage, and a motive. Tell me, why should I believe you're innocent?"
"Because I am," he said simply, as if that were explanation enough.
I narrowed my eyes. "That's not much of a defense."
"Do you always believe everything the prosecution says?" he countered, his tone calm but edged with something sharper.
"No," I replied evenly. "But I don't believe every client, either."
His smile widened. "Good. I'd be disappointed if you did."
I set the folder down, meeting his gaze head-on. "Let's start with the witnesses. You're claiming they were paid off?"
"They were," he said without hesitation. "Two of them. They work for a rival family. They'll say whatever they're told to say."
"And the surveillance footage?"
"Doctored," he replied. "It's a few seconds of grainy video, easy to manipulate if you know the right people."
"And the motive?"
His expression darkened slightly, the first crack in his otherwise unshakable composure.
"Marco Greco was a pawn," he said after a moment. "He worked for someone who wanted me out of the way. Killing him would've been pointless."
"But not impossible," I pointed out.
His jaw tightened, but he didn't break eye contact. "I didn't kill him."
The conviction in his voice was unnerving. It wasn't just confidence—it was certainty, as if he truly believed he was untouchable.
"What's in it for me?" I asked, breaking the silence.
His smile returned, slower this time. "More than you realize. When you win this case—and you will—you'll be untouchable. Your name will be on everyone's lips. The lawyer who took down the state's case against Lorenzo Santini? You'll be unstoppable."
"And if I lose?"
"You won't," he said simply.
His certainty sent a chill down my spine.
The door buzzed behind him, and the guard stepped inside. "Time's up."
Lorenzo stood, his movements calm and deliberate, as if he were still in control of the situation. "Think about it, Elena," he said, his voice smooth and measured. "You don't want to say no to me."
It wasn't a threat—not exactly. But the implication hung heavy in the air as he walked out, the steel door slamming shut behind him.
I sat there for a moment, staring at the empty chair across from me. My heart was racing, though I didn't know why.
I didn't want to admit it, but he was right about one thing. I couldn't say no.
Not yet.