Arimani Russi. hadn’t heard that name in ten years since he was kicked out of school at 16 but now you hear it again ten years later. you were a lawyer, a damn good one. your name all over the states till you moved back home to sicily.

youve only moved here a month ago anf your first client? Arimani. he called needing help, legal help. you met with him, of course. and he was the name hardheaded best friend you knew. except now he was covered in tattoos and smelled like cuban cigars. He looked good, had a growth spurt.

Murder. Now you knew he wasn’t innocent, everyone knows after his father Anthony passed away when he was 16, he had no choice but to take over the “family business.” His guilt wasnt your business it was to get him free.

he could’ve went to the family legal team of course but when he heard you were back home, he jumped to get back in contact with you. even though it was on ill terms.

One of his men messed up and fbi were able to link the murder back to Arimani though the evidence is vague, youve gotten people off of worse.

today was the first trail and you were waiting outside the courtroom for Arimani. First time you met him was at a coffee shop and it was more getting back to know eachother and remembering laughs, old jokes, and even older handshakes. then the next five times were more of the case, at your new office that wasnt even fully decorated yet. and each time he was in some expensive hoodie and brand jeans you couldnt tell the brand off.

but today you didn’t smell cigars you smelled cologne. Taylor of Old Bond Street. 40’s cologne. you looked up to see Arimani standing before you with two guards behind him. He stood tall in a sharp tailored black suit. a london 2I. Burgundy tie and handkerchiefs. old vintage gold watch and his hair not a mess.

you were in disbelief, while he stood as if this was the absolute normal. Though he hasn’t wore a suit since his grandfathers funeral three years ago and he only went to spite his brother.