The city outside my window felt alien as I stared at the email on my laptop screen. The world had a way of continuing as if nothing had changed, while everything inside me felt like it was unraveling.
"Elena, the payment wasn't from the Calvinis. It came from an offshore account. Authorized by L. Santini."
The sentence stared back at me, cold and undeniable.
For a moment, I thought I'd misread it. I scrolled back up, rereading Carlo's attached notes, the highlighted bank transactions, the trail that led directly to Lorenzo. But it didn't change.
Lorenzo had paid Ferraro.
My mind raced as I tried to piece together what it meant. Was he guilty after all? Had I been defending a man who was just as manipulative and ruthless as his enemies claimed? Or was there something else—some strategy so convoluted that I couldn't see it yet?
I leaned back in my chair, running my hands through my hair as frustration and anger churned inside me. Every conversation I'd had with Lorenzo over the past weeks replayed in my mind, his carefully chosen words taking on new meanings in light of this revelation.
He knew. He knew the whole time.
By the time I reached the detention center the next morning, my emotions were raw, my patience worn thin. I didn't just want answers—I needed them.
The guard led me down the familiar corridor, the sound of our footsteps echoing off the cold walls. My grip on the folder in my hand was tight, my knuckles white.
Lorenzo was waiting for me in the visitation room, his posture as composed as ever. He greeted me with a faint smile, the kind that felt less like warmth and more like a challenge.
"You look like you didn't sleep," he said, his tone light.
I sat down, sliding the folder across the glass between us without a word.
"What's this?" he asked, his eyes flicking to the document.
"You tell me," I said, my voice sharp.
He opened the folder, his expression carefully neutral as he scanned the report. For a long moment, he didn't speak. Then he closed the file and leaned back in his chair, his dark eyes meeting mine.
"So, you found it," he said simply.
"Found what?" I demanded. "The fact that you paid Ferraro to testify against you? That you lied to me?"
"I didn't lie," he said, his voice calm. "I just didn't tell you everything."
"That's the same thing," I snapped.
"No, it's not," he countered, leaning forward. "The Calvinis are framing me. But Ferraro's testimony was never about the Calvinis—it was about me staying in control."
"Control?" I repeated, disbelief creeping into my voice. "You're paying witnesses to implicate you. How is that control?"
"Because it keeps the game in my hands," Lorenzo said, his tone measured. "The Calvinis think they're orchestrating this, but they're not. I am."
His words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.
I stared at him, my chest tightening. "So, Ferraro's testimony… the discrepancies… that was you?"
"Yes," he admitted, without hesitation.
"And Montini? Is he on your payroll too?"
Lorenzo smirked faintly. "No. Montini's a Calvini puppet. But Ferraro? She's mine. I planted her in the prosecution's case to make sure their story unraveled when I needed it to."
I pressed my palms against the table, my heart pounding. "You've been playing everyone. Including me."
Lorenzo tilted his head, his smirk fading. "You think I'm playing you?"
"Yes!" I said, my voice rising. "You let me believe you were a victim. You let me put my career on the line for you. And now I find out you've been manipulating this case from the beginning?"
"I did what I had to do," Lorenzo said, his voice hardening. "You think this is about winning a trial? It's about staying alive. If I'd left this in your hands, the Calvinis would have buried me before the truth ever came out."
"You don't trust me," I said, the realization hitting harder than I expected.
His gaze softened slightly. "It's not about trust, Elena. It's about power. And in this world, the only way to survive is to make sure you're the one holding it."
His words struck something deep inside me—an anger I couldn't quite place.
"What about me?" I asked, my voice quieter now. "What happens to me when this blows up in our faces? Do you even care?"
For a moment, his mask slipped. His dark eyes softened, and his voice lowered. "I care more than you think. But caring doesn't change the rules of the game."
That evening, I sat in my apartment, staring at the files spread across the table. Lorenzo's words replayed in my mind, each one cutting deeper than the last.
"It's not about trust. It's about power."
I wanted to hate him. For lying, for manipulating me, for pulling me into his web of deception. But part of me couldn't ignore the truth in his words.
The Calvinis didn't play fair. They didn't follow the rules. If Lorenzo hadn't taken control of the narrative, they might have already succeeded in destroying him.
But at what cost?
I glanced at the photograph pinned to the corkboard. The young Lorenzo in the picture felt like a stranger now. His solemn eyes, his stiff posture—it was as though he'd been preparing for this life even then.
And yet, the woman in the photograph haunted me most.
She'd been his anchor, his connection to something softer. But she was gone now, and without her, Lorenzo had become a man willing to do whatever it took to survive.
I closed my eyes, exhaling shakily.
Am I becoming like him?
The question hung in the air, unanswered.
The next morning, I called Carlo.
"I need you to dig deeper into Ferraro," I said, my voice steady. "There's something off about her testimony. The details don't match up, and I need to know why."
Carlo sighed on the other end of the line. "Elena, you're playing a dangerous game."
"I know," I said. "But I don't have a choice."
When I returned to the detention center later that day, I felt like I was walking into a battlefield.
Lorenzo greeted me with the same infuriating calmness he always carried, but his eyes lingered on me a moment longer than usual.
"You're still angry," he said as I sat down.
"Of course I'm angry," I snapped. "You've made me complicit in your scheme without even telling me the full truth."
"And yet, here you are," he said, his tone soft but pointed.
I leaned forward, my hands pressing against the glass. "I need to know everything, Lorenzo. No more half-truths. No more games. If you want me to defend you, you have to give me the whole story."
For a long moment, he didn't respond. Then, slowly, he leaned closer, his expression serious.
"You want the truth?" he asked, his voice low. "The truth is, you're in deeper than you realize. And when the time comes, you'll have to choose: the law, or the man you're trying to save."
His words sent a chill down my spine.
"What does that mean?" I asked, my voice trembling slightly.
Lorenzo's lips curved into a faint, unreadable smile. "You'll find out soon enough."