The streets of Milan had a way of swallowing you whole, especially at night. The glowing signs of late-night cafés and the endless hum of traffic were familiar comforts, but tonight, they felt distant. My thoughts were still tangled in the conversation I'd had with Lorenzo Santini, replaying his words over and over like a scratched record.
The way he'd said it: "You don't want to say no to me."
Not a threat. Not overtly. But the weight of it clung to me, heavy and unshakable.
By the time I arrived at my office, I felt drained. The city lights outside the tall windows of Caruso & Associates shimmered faintly as I turned on the desk lamp. The soft glow illuminated the folder I'd left there earlier.
Lorenzo's name stared up at me. I stared back.
I didn't sit down immediately. Instead, I leaned against the edge of the desk, running my fingers along the folder's edges. Taking this case could either catapult my career into the stratosphere or destroy it entirely. No middle ground.
But what gnawed at me most was the uncertainty. The pieces of the puzzle Lorenzo had hinted at—the paid witnesses, the doctored footage—didn't align with the airtight case the prosecution had built.
I exhaled sharply, finally flipping open the file. If I was going to do this, I needed to start unraveling the threads now.
The summary was as damning as I remembered.
• Victim: Marco Greco, age 39. Shot three times outside the Luxor Hotel in broad daylight.
• Prosecution's Evidence:
1. Testimony from two eyewitnesses who placed Lorenzo at the scene.
2. A surveillance video showing a man matching Lorenzo's build entering the hotel minutes before the shooting.
3. Alleged motive: Greco had been skimming money from one of Lorenzo's businesses, prompting retribution.
It all sounded tidy, too tidy, as if someone had gift-wrapped the case for the prosecution. I flipped to the witness statements, starting with the first one.
• Witness 1: Carlo Montini
A bartender at the Luxor Hotel. Montini claimed to have seen Lorenzo arguing with Greco in the lobby shortly before the shooting.
My brow furrowed as I reread his account. It was oddly specific for a bartender—times, gestures, even the exact phrasing of their supposed argument. Most witnesses under stress couldn't remember things that precisely.
• Witness 2: Angela Ferraro
A tourist from Rome who had allegedly seen Lorenzo leaving the scene moments after the gunshots. Her statement was shorter, less detailed, but damning all the same.
Something about both testimonies felt rehearsed.
I turned to Montini's background report, scanning it for anything unusual. The first few pages were ordinary enough—employment history, a few minor traffic violations—until I reached a flagged section about his finances.
Six months ago, a large deposit had been made to Montini's bank account. Fifty thousand euros.
The source? Unclear.
I leaned back in my chair, tapping a pen against the edge of the folder. Fifty thousand euros was more than suspicious—it was a red flag. Santini might not have been lying about the witnesses being paid off. But by whom?
Before I could delve further, my phone buzzed on the desk, the sound cutting through the quiet.
I hesitated before picking it up. "Sofia."
"Tell me you're not seriously considering taking this case," Sofia said without preamble. Her voice was sharp, tinged with the kind of concern that bordered on frustration.
I sighed, rubbing my temple. "It's not that simple."
"Yes, it is," she snapped. "Lorenzo Santini is a criminal, Elena. Everyone knows it. If you represent him, you'll be putting your reputation—and your life—on the line."
I turned to look out the window, the faint lights of the city stretching far below. "I haven't made any decisions yet."
"But you're thinking about it," she pressed.
I didn't respond.
"Elena, listen to me," Sofia said, her tone softening. "I know you believe in justice. You always have. But men like Santini don't care about the law. They use people. Don't let him use you."
Her words stung because they were too close to the truth.
"I have to go," I said, cutting her off. "I'll call you later."
"Be careful," she said quietly before the line disconnected.
The next morning, I stood outside the Luxor Hotel, the scene of Marco Greco's murder.
The building was as opulent as I'd imagined—gleaming marble floors, towering glass doors, and chandeliers so grand they looked like they belonged in a palace. But beneath its glossy surface, the place felt cold, almost clinical.
A doorman gave me a curious look as I approached the reception desk.
"Good morning," I said, flashing my business card. "I'm here regarding the incident that occurred on June 12th. I'd like to ask a few questions."
The receptionist hesitated, her polite smile faltering. "The police already questioned everyone."
"I'm not with the police," I said, keeping my tone calm but firm. "This is a private inquiry. If you could point me toward someone who might be able to help, I'd appreciate it."
After a moment's hesitation, she nodded. "One moment, please."
I waited in the lobby, taking in my surroundings. The hotel was busy, with guests checking in and staff bustling about, but there was an underlying tension in the air. The kind that lingered long after something terrible had happened.
"Ms. Moretti?"
I turned to see a man approaching, dressed in a sharp black suit with the polished demeanor of someone accustomed to damage control. He introduced himself as the hotel manager and led me to a private office.
"I understand you're investigating Mr. Greco's death," he said, gesturing for me to sit.
"That's correct," I replied, pulling out my notepad. "I'd like to know more about the security footage from that day. Who had access to it before it was handed over to the police?"
"The footage is managed internally," he said. "But we provided everything to the authorities immediately. There was no tampering."
I nodded slowly, jotting down notes. "And the witnesses? Do you know anything about their statements?"
He hesitated, his fingers drumming lightly against the desk. "I can't speak to that, but…"
"But what?"
"There was a man who came around after the shooting," he said cautiously. "Asking a lot of questions. He didn't seem like a cop."
My pulse quickened. "Can you describe him?"
The manager frowned, as if debating whether to say more. "Tall. Dark suit. Very… composed. He looked like someone who wasn't used to being told no."
It wasn't much to go on, but it was enough to raise more questions.
"Thank you for your time," I said, standing.
As I walked back through the lobby, my mind raced. The more I looked, the more cracks I found in the prosecution's case. But cracks weren't enough. If I was going to take this case, I needed something concrete.
And I needed to find out who else was pulling the strings.