Chapter 2~ Knowing the Law
1127 Words
Courtrooms are colder than hell.
Not metaphorically. Literally. As if the AC is set to "tundra" just to keep the bloodthirsty calm and the liars from sweating too hard.
I walked in, heels echoing across marble floors, every step calculated. Not too fast, not too slow. Just enough to say: I own this place.
The whispers started before I even made it to my seat.
Good. Let them talk.
They say a lot of things about Lena Vescari. That I’m cold in and out of the court. That I sold my soul to win cases no one else could touch.
They’re wrong.
I didn’t sell my soul. I buried it years ago. Somewhere between my mother’s funeral and my father’s last breath.
“Ms. Vescari,” the judge nodded stiffly as I slid into my chair. I gave him a smile so polished it could cut glass.
“Your Honor,” I replied smoothly. “Always a pleasure.”
This case was supposed to be straightforward. Raffaele Costa — low-tier scum dressed in designer — accused of racketeering, extortion, and laundering enough money to make the Vatican blush.
The prosecution brought witnesses, shaky evidence, and egos twice the size of their IQs.
I brought a pen. And facts they weren’t ready for.
I was flipping through my notes, already scripting the destruction of their opening argument, when I felt it—a shift.
Like gravity changed.
My eyes flicked to the back of the room.
And there he was.
Dominic Moretti.
Dark suit. Gold watch. That annoyingly perfect face with eyes that looked like they’d watched a thousand people bleed out and didn’t flinch
I could still smell His cologne — that subtle spice-and-gunpowder scent that had clung to my sheets like a warning. Bringing Back memories of the night before.
It was more than a memory. A feeling. Dominic’s hands. His lips. That sound he made when I said his name.
I blinked.
Not now.
He wasn’t supposed to be here. This wasn’t his case.
But there he sat. Watching me.
He nodded once. Like we were old friends.
We weren’t.
I didn’t nod back. Yesterday was a mistake. A one night stand and nothing more.
But If Dominic Moretti was in the room, this trial wasn’t about Costa anymore.
It was about power.
And secrets.
And someone—probably me—getting dragged deeper into a mess.
I closed my file. Straightened my blazer.
“All rise,” the bailiff barked.
The judge entered. The trial began.
But I was already two moves ahead.
And Dominic Moretti?
He just reminded me that no matter how clean I kept my hands...
I was still playing in the blood.The prosecution’s voice droned on like background noise at a dinner party I didn’t want to attend.
Blah blah “organized crime,” blah “phone taps,” blah “we have irrefutable evidence.”
They always say that.
It’s cute.
I kept my expression unreadable, but inside, I was tearing their argument apart piece by piece. They were playing checkers. I’d brought a damn chessboard—and some C4 for good measure.
I felt eyes on me again.
His.
Of course.
Dominic hadn’t looked away once. Not even when the witness was describing, inexcruciatingly rehearsed detail, how Costa threatened him with a cigar cutter and a smile.
I turned slightly, met his gaze for half a second.
Cold and almost Curious.
He was watching me like I was the trial.
I hate that.
He smirked. Bastard.
I shifted my focus back to the case.
Because unlike Dominic, I had a job to do that didn’t involve theatrics and a body count.
I stood slowly when it was my turn. Smooth. Deliberate. Like I had all the time in the world—and the world would wait for me.
“Your Honor,” I began, my voice cutting clean through the static hum of the courtroom, “the defense would like to remind the prosecution that dramatic storytelling does not constitute admissible evidence.”
A few chuckles from the gallery. One sharp cough. The judge didn’t even look up.
I walked toward the witness stand, heels clicking. Click. Click. Like a countdown.
The man on the stand squirmed. That’s the thing about liars—they can memorize a script, but they can’t rehearse fear.
“Mr. Santos,” I said sweetly, “you stated you saw my client at 11:45 PM outside the Marcelli Club, is that correct?”
He nodded. “Yes. That’s right.”
“Funny,” I smiled. “Because security footage shows the club closed at 11:30. The cameras shut off. The gates locked. No one in or out.”
I leaned in just enough to make him sweat.
“But please, by all means, tell us again how you saw a man outside a locked building with no lights, no people, and no functioning security systems. I'm all ears.”
Boom. Silence.
Just the kind I liked.
The judge cleared his throat. “Ms. Vescari—”
“Almost done, Your Honor.”
I turned back to the bench, shot a quick glance to the prosecution. They looked like they just swallowed a lemon.
Click. Click. Back to my seat.
I caught Dominic watching again. But this time? He was smiling. Not the smirk. A real smile. Like he was impressed. Or amused. Or both.
I hated that more than the smirk.
The trial recessed for lunch, and the courtroom began to empty. I gathered my things, keeping it casual.
But before I could exit—
“Ms. Vescari.”
His voice. Smooth. Controlled.
And far too close.
I turned.
Dominic stood by the double doors like a devil waiting at the gates. Everyone else gave him a wide berth. Smart.
“Mr. Moretti,” I said coolly. “Shouldn’t you be somewhere else? Like... anywhere but here?”
He chuckled. Low. Dangerous.
“Couldn’t miss your performance. You’re quite the show.”
“I aim to win, not entertain.”
“Why not both?”
I stepped past him, brushing his shoulder with mine. He didn’t move.
“Walk away, Dominic,” I murmured, just loud enough for him to hear. “Before you end up in a courtroom seat you can’t slither out of.”
He leaned in, lips close to my ear.
“Careful, Lena,” he whispered. “You don’t know which side of the courtroom I’m sitting on yet.”
I glanced at him,our eyes meeting for a brief second before I walked away without looking back.
But every step out of that room felt like I was walking deeper into something I couldn’t quite see.
And for the first time in a long time...
That actually scared me.
- Writer
