The cold light of morning seeped into my apartment, casting long shadows across the files spread out on my table. The sunlight seemed to mock the chaos inside my mind, offering clarity I couldn't find no matter how many times I reviewed the evidence.
Ferraro. Montini. Lorenzo. The Calvinis.
The web was too tangled now, and every step I took to unravel it only seemed to tighten the knots.
Carlo's phone call replayed in my mind:
"Ferraro wasn't even in Milan the night Marco Greco was killed."
I ran my fingers through my hair, gripping it tightly as if the pressure would stop my thoughts from spinning.
She wasn't in Milan.
Her entire testimony—a cornerstone of the prosecution's case—was a fabrication. But the real question wasn't just why she lied. It was who had told her to.
By the time I reached Ferraro's hotel, my stomach was tight with unease. The building was a stark contrast to the rest of the city, its beige facade blending into the surrounding streets as though it wanted to be forgotten.
The clerk at the front desk barely looked up as I approached. His tired eyes flicked to my badge before he pointed me toward Room 214.
"She's been waiting," he said, his tone devoid of interest.
The hallway was quiet, the air thick with the faint scent of stale carpet and cleaning chemicals. I stood outside Ferraro's door for a long moment, my hand hovering over the worn brass number.
I wasn't just here to ask questions. I was here to draw a line, and I wasn't sure what would happen if Ferraro crossed it.
I knocked.
The door opened a crack, and Sofia Ferraro's face appeared, pale and tense. She looked smaller than I remembered, her confident courtroom demeanor replaced by something fragile.
"Elena Moretti," I said evenly. "We need to talk."
For a moment, she hesitated, her eyes darting past me as though checking for someone else. Then she opened the door fully and stepped aside.
The room was as unremarkable as the building—a small bed, a cheap wooden desk, and a single window with a view of the gray street below. Ferraro lingered near the window, her arms crossed over her chest like she was trying to shield herself.
"What's this about?" she asked, her voice cautious.
I didn't waste time with pleasantries. I set my bag down on the desk and pulled out the document Carlo had sent me.
"It's about your testimony," I said, holding the paper out to her. "And the fact that it's a lie."
Her face paled as her eyes flicked to the paper, but she didn't take it.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, her voice shaky.
"Yes, you do," I shot back, stepping closer. "You weren't in Milan the night Marco Greco was killed. You were in Naples. I have proof—hotel records, timestamps, everything. So don't stand there and tell me you don't know."
Sofia took a step back, her back pressing against the window. "I… I don't know what you're trying to say—"
"I'm saying," I interrupted, my voice rising, "that someone put you on that stand to lie. And I want to know who it was."
She shook her head, her hands trembling. "I can't…"
"Yes, you can," I said, my tone softening. "And you will. Because if you don't, I will make sure the prosecution knows exactly what you did. And when this all comes crashing down, you'll be the one left holding the blame."
Her breathing quickened, her eyes wide with panic.
"I didn't have a choice," she whispered.
"You always have a choice," I said firmly. "You chose to lie. Now choose to tell the truth."
Her gaze darted to the door, then back to me. She hesitated, her lips trembling as she struggled to find the words.
"It wasn't just one of them," she said finally, her voice barely audible.
"What do you mean?"
Her words spilled out in a rush, her voice trembling with fear. "It was both of them. The Calvinis and Santini."
I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. "What are you talking about?"
"They both paid me," she said, tears streaming down her face. "Lorenzo paid me to make it look like the Calvinis were framing him. And the Calvinis paid me to make sure Lorenzo's alibi had holes. I didn't have a choice—they both threatened me."
Her words hit like a blow, knocking the air from my lungs.
"You're saying Lorenzo and the Calvinis worked together?" I asked, my voice laced with disbelief.
"No," she said quickly. "They're not working together. They're using me against each other. They're both trying to twist the narrative in their favor."
I stepped back, my mind racing. If what she was saying was true, Lorenzo hadn't just manipulated the trial—he'd weaponized it.
"You lied on the stand," I said, my voice flat. "You lied to the court, to the prosecution, and to me."
She nodded, her tears falling freely now. "I didn't want to. But you don't say no to people like them. You just don't."
I stared at her, the weight of her confession settling over me like a lead blanket.
The drive back to my apartment felt like a dream, the city lights blurring into streaks of gold and white. Ferraro's words replayed in my mind, each one cutting deeper than the last.
"Lorenzo paid me to twist the truth."
"The Calvinis paid me to discredit him."
The trial wasn't about justice. It wasn't even about guilt. It was a battlefield, and I was standing in the crossfire.
When I stepped into my apartment, the silence hit me like a wall. The files on my table were still there, untouched, but they felt like a stranger's mess now.
I sat down, staring at the photograph of Lorenzo on the corkboard. His teenage face looked back at me, solemn and unyielding.
He had told me from the beginning that this wasn't about the law. That it was about power.
But now I realized it wasn't just power he wanted.
It was control.
The next morning, I returned to the detention center, my emotions tightly wound. Lorenzo greeted me with his usual calm, but his eyes flicked to my face, reading the tension in my expression.
"You've been busy," he said, his tone light but cautious.
I sat down, setting my bag on the table without responding.
"Ferraro talked," I said finally.
Lorenzo's smirk faltered, just slightly. "Did she now?"
"She told me everything," I continued, my voice sharp. "The Calvinis. The payments. How you used her to manipulate the case."
Lorenzo leaned back, his expression unreadable. "And?"
"And?" I repeated, my anger bubbling to the surface. "You played me, Lorenzo. You played everyone."
"No," he said calmly. "I played the game. There's a difference."
His words cut deeper than I wanted to admit.
"You told me this wasn't about the law," I said. "But you didn't tell me it was about breaking it."
Lorenzo leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "This isn't about the law, Elena. It never was. It's about survival. And if you're not willing to do what it takes to win, then you've already lost."