Chapter 4 ~Smoke and Mirrors
1223 Words
After escaping the reporters. I had just taken a few steps outside when it began raining.
Of course, it did.
Not the dramatic movie kind either—just that slow, miserable drizzle that makes the city feel tired. Grey. Blurred around the edges.
I hated that kind of rain.
The courthouse steps were slick, the umbrellas were out, and I could already hear some reporter shouting my name behind me. I didn’t stop. I never do.
My car was waiting at the curb. Engine humming. My driver tapped out some rhythm on the steering wheel like he was bored. Walking towards my car when—
“Nice cross. You know you should take the back door right?”
I froze. Not in fear. Just... irritation.
He was leaning against a black SUV, one ankle crossed over the other, hands in the pockets of a coat that probably cost more than my last case's payout.
Dominic Moretti didn’t look out of place. That was the problem.
He always looked like he belonged. Like the world had carved out a space just for him and dared anyone to question it.
“Are you really following me now?” I asked, pulling my coat tighter.
“No,” he said casually. “Just making sure you don’t trip on your way to world domination.”
I gave him a look. The kind that usually shuts people up. It didn’t work on him.
“What do you want?” I asked.
“Lunch.”
I blinked. Obviously confused. “Excuse me?”
“Lunch,” he repeated like it was the most normal thing in the world for someone like him to make such an offer. “You and me. Ten minutes. Neutral ground.”
I stared at him, trying to gauge the angle. Because there was always an angle.
“I’m not in the habit of dining with criminals.”
“That’s funny,” he said, pushing his body off the car. “Because you sure as hell spend a lot of time defending them.”
I didn’t respond. Not because he was right, but because he wasn’t entirely wrong.
He smiled. Not that smug thing he wore in court—this one was different. Subtler. Wary, even.
“There are some hidden informations you must know about this case,” he said. “Something that you won't find in your files. And I’m the only one who can give it to you.”
I tilted my head. Trying to understand what he just said. “And you’re offering this... out of the goodness of your heart?”
“No,” he said plainly. “I don’t have one of those.”
Of course, he didn’t.
I glanced at the car behind him. Tinted windows. Discreet driver. No obvious threat. But still—it felt like stepping into a trap. Or a test.
“Five minutes. In my Car” I said.
He raised an eyebrow, looking almost surprised I accepted. “That’s generous.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
—-
The inside of my car was warm and quiet. No music. No distractions. Just the sound of the rain and Dominic watching me like I might pull a knife at any moment.
Honestly? He wasn’t wrong to think it.
“You’ve been digging,” he said after a beat.
I didn’t respond. He took that as confirmation.
“Costa isn’t your real target.”
I looked out the window. “You have no idea what I’m after.”
“I have some idea,” he said. “And if you keep playing it like you are now, someone’s going to get to you before you find what you’re looking for.”
I turned toward him, eyes sharp. “Is that a threat?”
“It’s a warning.”
He meant it. I could tell. There was something in his voice—not fear, not concern, but something heavier. Something like regret.
Which meant he’d seen this before.
Maybe done it before.
And for the first time, I saw something in Dominic Moretti that wasn’t polished or practised.
It was just... tiredness.
He reached into his coat and handed me a flash drive. Small. Silver. Unmarked.
“This will either help you or ruin you,” he said. “Depends how deep you want to go.”
I took it without a word.
“Why me?” I asked.
He shrugged. “Because you’re smart. And because if anyone’s going to blow this whole thing open... it’s you.”
And just like that, he stepped out of my car and into the rain, vanishing into the city in his car.
Five minutes. That’s all he took. But now the case felt different. Heavier.
And deep down, I knew—
Something had just shifted.
The case was different. Entirely different.
I didn’t plug in the flash drive right away.
Call it paranoia. Or common sense. Either way, I wasn’t about to stick a mystery USB from a man like Dominic Moretti into my laptop like I was starring in an IT horror story.
No. I had a process.
Back at my office—after triple-checking for bugs, tails, and emotional stability (I failed that last one, by the way)—I set it up on an isolated machine. No network. No cloud. No chance.
The folder opened with a soft ping. One file.
“1978_Archive_A1.mp4”
What the hell?
I hit play.
The video was old. Blurry, grainy footage—looked like it’d been transferred from VHS to digital sometime after the dinosaurs died. No sound. Just a time stamp blinking in the corner and two people sitting at a table in what looked like a church basement.
One of them was—my father.
My chest tightened.
He was younger—barely thirty, maybe. But I’d know that posture anywhere. Stiff. Formal. Like he was always bracing for impact. He had a file in front of him, and he kept glancing at the camera like he wasn’t supposed to be doing this.
The other man?
I didn’t recognize him at first.
Then I did.
Santos.
The same man I’d cross-examined earlier. The witness who’d “seen” Costa outside the club. Only in this footage, he wasn’t testifying—he was confessing.
And he was scared.
My father slid a piece of paper across the table. Santos read it, nodded slowly, then started talking—fast, hands shaking. I couldn’t hear the words, but his body language said enough. He was spilling everything.
And my father looked... haunted.
The footage cut off suddenly. Just—black.
I sat back in my chair, heart pounding.
Why would Dominic have this? Why now?
I reached for my phone, fingers hovering.
Was this the angle? The real play? Costa wasn’t just some throwaway thug. He was tied to something old. Something my father had tried to bury before—
Before he died.
Correction: Before he was killed—I think.
And Dominic? He knew. Maybe not everything, but enough to show up in court, drop a flash drive in my lap, and vanish like a ghost with great tailoring.
I ran my hands through my hair, breathing hard.
This wasn’t a trial anymore.
The game was changing. Fast.
And I was already a few steps in.
- Writer
