3| Money-1

┏━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━┓ Money ┗━━━✦❘༻༺❘✦━━━┛ : Money (Amara's POV) "Vincere non è tutto, Amara," Dad exhaled over the phone while I grabbed my blazer and tugged it on, pulling my hair out and tossing it over my shoulders He says winning isn't everything, but how couldn't it be? "Ma è," I argued, "of course it is, Dad. In our world, it most certainly is." A gentle sigh escaped him, "Sometimes, I truly wonder if I went wrong somewhere, showing you too much of our world far too early." I glanced at my phone as it sat on the bed. "Don't get so sentimental, Dad. That wasn't completely up to you." Turning around as I adjusted my clothes, I grabbed my phone and slipped into my heels, and took my purse. "I'm heading out now, augurami buona fortuna," I said, demanding that he wished me luck. And he did, replying with, "Buona fortuna, mia figlia." "I'll see you later, bye." Hanging up after his response and with one last look in the mirror to check the white pantsuit I wore, I moved to my door, only to stop immediately after. "Damn it," I mumbled, rushing to my nightstand and grabbing all the files required for today and then turning to my pillows, lifting Donna up from beneath one of them. Scratching the top of her head and then tapping her little brown-tipped snout and gently flicking her ears that matched the brown of her nose, paws, and tail but contrasted the rest of her white coat. "Bye," I said before setting her back down on the bed and heading out with her meow echoing behind me. Heading downstairs and into the elevator, I descended to the lobby and then out to get to my car. Double-checking the address given to me for this meeting by my client, I followed directions and drove to Mr. Banks' office. I ensured that the location for this meeting suited my client more than our opponent and did whatever the hell it took to make sure our opponents agreed. That was before I knew that the attorney I'd be going up against was Tristan Harper, quite literally the devil himself. Almost. If it wasn't for the fact that I could be far worse than him when it came down to it. Tristan never failed to infuriate me and leave me absolutely enraged and over the years, I'd come to despise him to the point where I couldn't remember a time when he was tolerable. Despite that, I was one of the only people in this world who got lucky enough to see Tristan Harper beg for mercy exactly three years ago and once I got a taste, I craved the sight of him begging for mercy one more time. Three years ago, Tristan landed himself in the worst situation possible. A murder case. Believe it or not, he was being accused of a crime he didn't commit and that's not to say that Tristan Harper wasn't a murderer because he sure had his hands painted with blood. But the murder he was charged with was one he didn't commit. When everybody was too scared to step up and be his attorney and relished in his misery, he had no other options. He came to me. Stupidly, I agreed and saved his ass from going to jail. Unfortunately for me, that only brought me to gunpoint, several times, might I add, and painted a target on my back that was double the size of what I already had. Tristan's selfishness left me with no choice but to leave New York and go underground for an entire year. I was forced to spend an entire year hiding like a coward, all because of him. When I returned two years ago, I decided that being a stranger to him was actually better than being an ally because helping him out didn't exactly work very well for me, only sent several hitmen and his enemies after me. But of course, he forgot all about the help I gave him and we resumed being rivals as if I hadn't saved him from spending the rest of his life in prison. I hated him far before that ever happened and after what happened to me simply because I defended him in court, I despised him even more. Being associated with a man like Tristan Harper did more harm than good and I wouldn't make the same mistake twice. I preferred to stay away from him but it was hard enough to do that working in the same field, same city, and same social and political circles. So hatred it was. Once I parked my car, I grabbed my things and got out, locking it behind me as I headed inside. Over the past few weeks that I'd met Mr. Banks, I'd come to his office multiple times and by now, the employees were familiar with me and security let me in without any questions asked. I knocked on the door before entering his office upstairs. "Amara, you're just on time," he said, "let's move to the conference room. I'll have somebody show those assholes the way." I nodded, "Lead the way then." We waited for a few minutes before Banks' assistant opened the door and Tristan walked in with Patterson trailing behind him. I remained seated, my eyes following both of their movements as Tristan settled across from me, tossing his files onto the table. "Where's the mediator?" Patterson asked, glancing between Tristan and me. On cue, the door opened and another man was shown in, a now-retired judge I had previous experience with multiple times, Mr. Lopez. Clearing his throat, he opened the first of today's paperwork and began the mediation process. "Today, I have with me the defendant, Mr. Anthony Banks, and the plaintiff, Mr. Mark Patterson, is that right?" Both men responded. "The plaintiff's attorney is Ms. Amara Milano and the defendant's is Mr. Tristan Harper, correct?" "Yes," we answered in sync, glancing at each other. "Right then. The purpose of this meeting, gentleman, is to come to an agreement on your dispute and the criminal charges Mr. Banks has filed against Mr. Patterson. The aim is to solve this issue amicably and if that does not happen, your attorneys will brief you on what's next and will go to trial where your case shall be presented to a judge.