Mirror

chapter 2

I have tonnes of work to do today. I have a meeting with a client-someone with a terrible reputation but seems to get away with all his crimes. I arrive at the office, "Kingston Enterprises." It's a relatively big company said to have ties to the mafia. I've defended worse people for worse crimes, and I know I'm going straight to hell.

I walk into the elevator, my heels clicking against the tiles. "I can't wait to retire," I mutter to my assistant, Jonathan. "You're so lucky you get to retire early," he tells me. "I know," I say, though bragging about it feels hollow. Work has been my entire life, but I'm tired now. I've made my fair share of money and enemies, and it's not enjoyable anymore.

"Good morning, we're here for the meeting," I say, smiling at the receptionist. Her name is Charlie, such a sweet lady from the few times we spoke over the phone. She's two years older than me if I remember correctly. "Right this way," she says, leading us into the conference room. "Please take a seat while I go inform the boss." Jonathan and I take a seat as he shuffles through our papers, setting them on the table.

This is my last client, I promise myself. He walks in, and we stand up. I look up, and who do I see? The man from last night. His hair is dark, as are his eyes, and as far as I saw last night, he has a few tattoos. I smile, but last night I was off the clock; right now, I'm at work.

"Veronica Monroe," I say, reaching out to shake his hand. "Dominic Moretti," he says, taking my hand. I let go. "This is my associate," I say, gesturing to Jonathan. "Jonathan Quinn," he says, reaching out his hand, but Dominic ignores him.

"Let's get started," I say, taking a seat. "You allegedly attacked Mr. Tony Rowland on the thirteenth of May," I state. "Yes, and what about it?" He says, with an attitude. "I want to know if you actually did it," I say, trying to maintain my composure. He stays silent.

"Look, Mr. Moretti-"

"Dominic," he interrupts.

"Excuse me?"

"I want you to call me Dominic," he says, his gaze piercing into mine.

"Look, Dominic, you already have a record of assault and attempted manslaughter. I just want to know if you really did it," I state firmly.

"I did," he says, his tone unyielding.

"You are in anger management and are currently getting therapy," I continue, trying to keep control of the conversation, but his gaze challenges me at every turn.

I narrow my eyes at him, trying to gauge his reaction. His expression remains impassive, but there's a flicker of something in his eyes-defiance, maybe even a hint of amusement. It only fuels my determination to get to the bottom of this.

"Okay, Dominic," I say, emphasizing his name with a touch of sarcasm. "Let's cut to the chase. Why did you attack Mr. Rowland?"

He leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. "Because he deserved it."

I resist the urge to roll my eyes. "And what exactly did he do to deserve it?"

"He insulted me," Dominic replies, his voice tight with restrained anger.

I raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. "And you thought physical violence was an appropriate response?"

He shrugs, a nonchalant gesture that belies the tension crackling in the air between us. "It seemed like the quickest way to shut him up."

I can feel my patience wearing thin, but I reign in my frustration. I've dealt with difficult clients before, but there's something about Dominic that sets him apart. Maybe it's the way he carries himself, all confident swagger and simmering aggression. Or maybe it's the way his eyes seem to bore into mine, daring me to look away.

"Mr. Moretti," I say, my voice clipped with barely concealed irritation. "Attacking someone is never the answer, no matter what they may have said or done."

He meets my gaze head-on, his jaw set stubbornly. "Maybe not in your world, Ms. Monroe. But in mine, sometimes it's the only way to get things done."

I resist the urge to argue further, knowing that it will only escalate the tension between us. Instead, I focus on the facts, pushing aside my personal feelings for the sake of my client.

"Fine," I say, forcing myself to adopt a professional tone. "Let's move on. Do you have any witnesses or evidence to support your claim of self-defense?"

Dominic hesitates, his gaze flickering away for a brief moment before returning to meet mine. "No," he admits reluctantly. "But I have my word, and that's all that should matter."

I suppress a sigh, knowing that his word alone won't be enough to sway a judge or jury. But before I can respond, Jonathan clears his throat, drawing our attention to the stack of papers in front of him.

"I think we should review the evidence we do have," he suggests, his tone diplomatic but firm. "It may not be much, but it's our best chance at building a defense."

I nod in agreement, grateful for his intervention. With Jonathan's help, we delve into the details of the case, dissecting each piece of evidence with ruthless efficiency. Despite Dominic's initial resistance, he eventually begins to open up, offering insights and information that could prove invaluable in court.
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Diary Entry 14:
Dear Diary,

I'm twenty-eight now, and I hate my job. I'm a successful lawyer, but it feels empty. Every case is a reminder of my own battles, my own scars. The long hours, the constant stress-it's all too much. I need a change, but I don't know what else to do.