I walk out of the elevator, the noises in the hallway shuts as I enter. They look at me like I don't come here everyday.

The boardroom of Accardi Law gleams, polished marble of the table reflects the glow of the recessed spotlights, the blinds facing the city shut down.

A perfect stage set by my not so dear colleagues to intimidate me. Fifteen hounds seated on the leather chairs, discussing in hushed voices.

I arrive two minutes early, and stare at the intentional lighting scheme highlighting the table and the screen, the words clear and bold:

Cyber Heist Crime

Accused: Elena Vales, a cybersecurity engineer.

Allegation: She hacked into government and corporate servers, stealing billions by rerouting small digital transactions into anonymous crypto accounts.

Evidence: Digital trails, timestamps, server logs, and a crypto wallet linked to her E-mail.

Defendant: Alonzo Accardi.

I walk to my chair at the far end and though it isn't technically the head of the table, everyone knows it functions that way. The CEO's seat is still empty which means my grandfather would be watching us somewhere from the CCTV.

"Mr. Accardi," says Martin Smith, one of the senior lawyers. His tone carries the kind of false civility that hides insecurity. "You've put the firm in a rather… precarious position."

"Good afternoon to you too, Martin," I reply smoothly to the fungus of a person, loosening the cuff of my shirt as I sit. "I was starting to worry we'd forgotten our manners."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Accardi." Another oaf interrupts. "What Mr. Smith is trying to imply is that no one expected you to touch a case like this, too risky, too public, too… beneath the Accardi prestige."

Too beneath the Accardi prestige. How poetic. If this is what the firm thinks "prestige" looks like, no wonder it needs me to keep it alive.

I lean back on my chair, my hand trails up to my jaw, fingers grazing the stubble there.

"Ah! Victoria is it? We all know your reputation for only touching the safest, most mind-numbingly boring cases. But you know, someone needs to surpass that mediocrity."

A faint green tinge creeps up her neck, resentment creepimg in. Her jaw tightens, lips part as if to speak, but she swallows the words back, too aware that the room is watching.

Before she can object, the door opens. Noises in the room drops.

My grandfather– Theodore Accardi enters. Still imposing, still in charge of the room wherever he goes. He sits on his chair, cutting the razor sharp silence with his words. "Continue," his voice a steady frost, much similar to mine. 

"I believe my grandson was justifying his recklessness."

Everyone straightens. Although I don't want to but I respect this man's legacy and the law empire he has built dominating over the country, so I do for the sake of example to his employees.

"Not recklessness," I say evenly. "Preparation. If we don't take this case, another firm will."

"So how does it matter to us?" The oaf speaks again. Her eyes narrow. "What I know is that taking this case risks the firm's credibility. The press already calls it a federal scandal. Why would the Accardi Law firm step into a mess that could sink it?"

I lean forward crossing my hands on the table, voice low and calm. "Elena Vales. Worked as a contractor for Accardi Law's tech division for two years. She left three months before the breach. That means whoever did this can use our systems, our network, to build her trail. If another firm takes over, they might gain access to those logs."

The temperature in the room drops, not even the noise of pen scribbling or laptop keys tapping.

My grandfather breaks the silence, his gaze sweeping over me before settling on everyone.  "And if they do, they'll gain access to data we've spent years to protect, I assume we all don't want that." His words are heavy, placed carefully, carrying the unmistakable tarnish of five decades building the iron forge.

"Correct."

Murmurs spread like ripples. I let them. They need to feel their own unease before I take it apart.

Fungus frowns. "And you believe that's in the firm's best interest?"

"It's in the firm's survival interest." My voice stays calm, even though I want to put them in a vessel and throw them in the Hudson for irritating me for the past two hours. "If we don't take it, the prosecution can cite our tech records. Every vendor we ever paid, every encrypted file, every transaction."

The room goes silent.

I can practically hear the sound of throats tightening. They all know their corruption can also wake them from death if this happens.

"You think they'll stop at Elena? They'll crawl through us until they find something to burn."

Grandfather stares at me, studying me like he's dissecting a flaw. He holds eye contact for twenty-one seconds before he speaks.

"And you're certain she's innocent?"

"I'm certain she's a scapegoat. Someone used her as a mask." I lean forward. "It isn't the work of an amateur."

I scan through the hounds sitting impatiently on their seats. This isn't some petty law firm sabotage. The legal world plays dirty but not this dirty. Lawyers ruin each others reputations, not networks.

The Indian BrahmNet. Yugant Bansal's name has started surfacing again after months of silence. A man too ambitious for the size of his empire, and since Shaurya messed Russian Bratva tech deal, since then they are waiting for their chance to slit his throat or his daughter's.

Russians are holding Bansal's leash tighter since his engagement to the Bratva princess- Natalya Ivanova.

The question: Would he ditch years of truce with us for his fiancée's family's revenge?

Or it might not be them.

The Spanish Syndicate has been splitting at the seams lately. Ares Marquez the elder son of La Familia is unpredictable in the worst ways and his younger brother are locked in a silent civil war for throne.

Their father, the old mob, want the younger son to inherit the throne. And Ares? A man like that doesn't bow to anyone's decision. Either he'll take what's his, or he'll reduce their legacy to ashes.

The city's underworld has been restless lately with too many deals shifting hands, new alliances, too many old debts resurfacing.

And now, few of them are using her as a cover. My jaw clenches at the thought of cheap theatrics.

Grandfather takes a long breath then gives a single, almost imperceptible nod. "Then the case is yours. But if this explodes–"

"It won't."

"– you'll take the fall alone."

Translation: You're fired from managing partner  position.

"Wouldn't expect anything less."

He stands and leaves without another word. No encouragement, softness, none whatsoever. I'm just an employee under him whom he's training to inherit his empire.

The affection was reserved for his daughter– my mother that he buried along with her decades ago.

The others scatter, whispering about damage and suicide and arrogance. Let them.

When the door closes, I pull the blinders, watching the city burn gold beyond the glass. My reflection stares back- calm, ugly, dangerous.

I pull out my phone and a message flash on it.

Heyy Alonzoo

Are you up for the evening session ??

Two y's, o's, ?’s just to spite me.

Cheap tactics of Iraanya Kashyap.

Evening session. I sigh and look at the time, half an hour has passed from the time I gave to her.

The annoying meeting gave her a free chance to dictate to me on discipline.

I am busy.

We will do after dinner.

I look at the panel screen, case highlights on it and then a text starts to roll on it like a simmer of stars in sky.

So you took the case. Cute.

You protected me, unknowingly. I'll return the favor… in time.

~Mars

My fingers hover over the keyboard, every neuron calculating the breach. My firewalls are untouched. No email, no sender, no alert.

The system says "no intrusion detected."

I switch off the screen panel and walk out of the office, secure the network on my cell and call Shaurya Kashyap. He picks up in the second ring.

His voice comes out quiet, edged. "Alonzo. You don't usually call at this hour. Is Iraanya okay?"

I think about her… if she's okay. She would be pacing in circles, thinking too hard, coffee in one hand. This is what I've seen her doing the past month.

I dislike his daughter. She's insufferable, stubborn, infuriating… and yet my brain keeps cataloguing every little thing she's doing.

A pen would be tucked in a hair bun and she would be searching for it everywhere.

And I can almost see her, the way she chews on her lip when she's confused over something.

Ridiculous. Ignore.

I'm not supposed to think about that.

"She's fine," I say, every syllable forged to sound careless.

Although it feels like a lie, because she might have skipped her lunch as she is overburdening herself with the BAR exam these days. She's stubbornly disciplined about everything except herself. Forgetting meals, scribbling notes until her fingers cramp, losing track of time when she reads.

"Then what is that you called me for?" His voice cuts me off from thoughts of her.

I bring back my attention to the case again. "Anonymous text appeared on my secure terminal and vanished. Goes by the name Mars. The real one behind the cyber-heist."

I go over to my car and open the door sliding inside. She would be waiting for the tutoring session. "Mars… It is watching me and using my parallel life against me."

"And you want me to do what exactly?" He exhales, keys tapping on the computer somewhere behind.

"Everything. Lock down my law firm's servers. Erase every trace of my side operations. Encrypt my entire client datas, mafia network, transaction records. Make my systems a fortress. Then hunt Mars."

"I'll isolate your servers by tomorrow. But hunting him will take time. Any active attempt to trace a skilled, anonymous hacker risks revealing methods and may provoke retaliation."

"Retaliation will provide hints of whosoever they are. Russians have been sniffing for months, the Spanish Syndicate has been too silent for the past month, could be BrahmNet trying to expand."

There's a beat of silence. Shaurya's voice drops even lower. "So you want me to take a dig on everyone?"

I lean against the wheel for a second before straightening my spine. "Quietly. If we can't hunt them, build a trap, dig for secrets or worse weaknesses."

We hang up. The screen before me flickers once more, an empty cursor blinking, devoid of any new texts. I throw my suit jacket on the passenger seat, tie hanging loose.

My reflection in the windshield stares at me, imperfections mocking at me. The cold eyes stare back, "Vincere o morire, Accardi."

My fingers flex around the wheel, the speedometer going up every second. Every possibility of the scandal claws me, my knuckles turn white against the wheel.

I lean back, jaw tight, teeth grinding silently, hair mussed from running a hand through it one too many times.

The headlights carve through the darkness, illuminating the empty streets, reflections of everything hollow inside me.

By the time I reach house, the irritation has already crystallized into something sharper.

Inhale.

Exhale.

The moment I step in the weight of the day claws at my skull. Mars wanted me to take the case. The partners meeting assured me they are waiting for my fall to remove me from the position. Which I won't quite let happen.

My patience ran out hours ago, yet here I am, dragging the remnants of it to the library like a corpse. Iraanya Kashyap is sitting cross-legged on the floor with books spread across the table, her hair in a loose knot, a pen tucked in it, barely holding them together.

It should annoy me, the mess, the clutter, the way she has turned my library into her study den.

But instead, it doesn't as much as the neat, precise boardroom did.

The moment my shoes hit the wood, her head lifts, her irritably soothing voice calls out, "Hey."

I resume to light the fireplace near the couch, where she is sitting on the cold floor. "You look worn out," she speaks again, her voice soft, threaded with genuine concern.

My first instinct toward a stranger's concern is annoyance. No one asked me that, not even my grandfather when I went to him from burning in the fire my father lit. The only time anyone ever gave a damn about my well-being was when it directly affected the bottom line.

"I'm fine," I say. "We'll have dinner first. Tutoring after."

She tilts her head, faintly surprised. "It's not even eight."

"Early doesn't hurt," I reply, already walking past her. "Unless you've decided to skip dinner too."

Her mouth parts slightly, ready for an argument but a faint grumble resonates in her stomach. Her brows pull slightly, ears reddening a bit and she nods. "Alright."

Across the table, she's scrolling through her phone, one airpod in, the faintest hum of music slipping through.

I can tell silence unsettles her. The kind that makes thoughts too loud.

It's written all over the way she fills it, with motion, with noise, with anything that distracts her from herself.

I thought silence was a blessing after the circus that was today. And now that I have it… I hate it.

She hasn argued once. No unnecessary questions, no smart little remarks. Just the sound of her fork against the plate, and that faint hum from her airpod.

I clear my throat. Nothing. She doesn't even look up.

What's so interesting on that screen?

Dinner passes in silence, like I used to prefer it that way. She prefers small talk, but she's learned to stop trying. Brilliant.

Later, back in the library, she's already set up before I even walk in. The discipline and perfection stirs that old, grinding hard work I put through to build the Italian mafia back from scratch. Nineteen hours a day to succeed in two opposite lives, only to prove a man wrong who was already six feet under.

"We'll start with evidence law." I announce flicking through her mock tests.

She nods, and for the next hour, we slip into formality. The air between us is filled with the low hum of intellect and passion.

When she hesitates on a question, I push. Harder. "You can't pause mid-argument," I say. "You either hold your ground or lose it."

She glares at me half-heartedly, but adjusts back, pen poised. "I am trying." she murmurs, dejection clear in her voice.

I lean back, rubbing the bridge of my nose. "Here," I murmur, pulling her notes closer. "You wrote this part wrong. Look."

My hand moves slowly as I underline a line, explaining. She watches, following every word.

"Try again," I whisper, the tone almost soft. When she hesitates, I add, "You know this. Don't overthink."

When she finishes, I nod once.

She exhales, a quiet little puff that sounds almost relieved. "I thought you'd tell me that was terrible."

"It was." I pause, and she blinks at me. "Last time. This is better."

She tries to smile, lips pressed together, not exactly proud, but content.

When she begins packing her notes, I stop her hand on the last page. "Leave it open. I'll mark what you missed."

I stack other books neatly, aligning the corners before handing them over. She gives me a puzzled look, then smiles, a real one this time.

My fingers brush hers, a brief contact that sends a strange calm through my veins. It's pathetic how easily a few hours with her quiets the storm I walked in with.

As the door shuts behind her, a text appears.

You've built your whole life on the power behind the gunpoint and blood.

It would be a shame if you learned the cost of it in public.

I don't want that, otherwise where is the fun?

Bury this case. And we are even.

~Mars

I know this chapter was boring but it was needed for the plot.

Happy reading<3