2025-09-11 21:18:55CHAPTER 2
The city had barely shaken off the dawn when Adrian Morgan arrived at the sleek glass doors of Westcourt Chambers. His reflection—the same perfect hair, the same colder-than-marble eyes—looked back. No sign of DeLuca. Still, the phantom of that name whispered in the syntax of his veins.
Inside, he ducked into his office: minimalist, elegant, a contrast to the chaos of courtroom showdowns. Bookshelves slotted with law texts, folders stacked like silent sentries, and across the desk, a single photo—his mother, smiling in exile, long ago. He reached for it, hesitated, then tucked it face-down. Discipline was a blade he wielded daily.
A soft knock broke the moment.
“Client’s vehicle is here,” his assistant said. “Security flagged two men outside who’ve been loitering by your car since morning.”
Adrian didn’t flinch. The public eye had adored his courtroom performance; only a few watched him uncloak off-stage. He walked out, past the doors without looking. Outside, the two men remained statuesque, anonymous. They didn’t approach. They didn’t retreat. Just waited.
He slipped into his silver sedan, allowing only cold observation.
The Valenti Family, once nearly toppled by the DeLucas, had regained power—quietly, brutally. Whispers now swirled through whispered channels: Morgan wasn’t just a brilliant lawyer. There was something… uncanny about him. Something that frightened their inner circles.
◇◇◇◇◇
Back in his office, he poured coffee—not to taste, but to steady the current in his fingers—then turned to his phone. The dossiers of yesterday’s trial. Victims, defendants, sloppy prosecution notes. All neat and organized.
A knock at the door. His assistant entered with a file.
“It’s not a client,” he warned.
Adrian didn’t blink. “Proceed.”
A man stepped in, tailored to perfection, smelling faintly of old money and power. He spoke with ease, lighting a business card:
Ricardo Vitale — Valenti Family Counsel.
A polite presentation. Respectful and precise.
“My name is Adrian Morgan,” Adrian replied, bowing slightly.
Vitale returned it. “A pleasure,” he said. “Clear your ledger today. I came to extend an... invitation.”
“A creative solution?” Adrian smirked.
“Let’s call it an opportunity,” Vitale said. “Your client yesterday—he was one of ours. A soldier. Popular… until he threatened to reveal internal details after his arrest. You waived his sentence. That kind of outcome attracts attention.” He paused, letting the weight sink in. “We recognize the value of power like yours—and would like to ensure it remains on the right side.”
Adrian’s face didn’t falter. His voice remained controlled: “I’m independent.”
Vitale nodded. “Of course. But in business—especially your kind—the concept of independent is a luxury. A dangerous one.” He placed the card gently on the desk. Not demanding, but implying. “You may think your identity is hidden. But names don’t stay buried forever.”
He turned, eyes cold, and left. The door shut with finality.
Adrian stared at the card. Visions of his true name flickered—DeLuca. It had been buried beneath Adrian Morgan for years, believed forgotten. But as Vitale phrased it: blood remembers. And the Valentis were not known for forgetting.
That night, the city lights cloaked his penthouse in soft luminescence. Adrian sat with his whiskey neat, filing out every detail of Vitale’s warning. Outside his floor-to-ceiling windows, Milan glittered, oblivious to the chessboard being arranged.
He pulled out a hidden drawer and retrieved a folded letter—old, crinkled. It held the original DeLuca family insignia: a bull crowned in black. A relic, now dangerous. He studied it, his grip steady even as the wine glass he held grew icy.
Blood remembers. Adrian almost whispered it to himself before the thought skated away. He was Morgan now. The undefeated lawyer, unbreakable, unknowable.
Then: knock at the door.
Not sharp—but precise.
He knew the knock. A serenade of allegiance. He rose, opened the door. A silent clean-cut courier handed him an envelope: black wax seal, no mark. No name.
Inside: a single phrase handwritten:
“You cannot silence your legacy.”
Adrian’s cold heart snapped into clarity. The masquerade was ending.
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