The streets of Milan seemed colder than usual, the chill cutting through my coat as I approached the courthouse. The city's usual hum of life—the faint laughter spilling from cafes, the sharp rhythm of footsteps on cobblestone—felt muted, as if the weight of my thoughts had dulled the world around me.
The note in my pocket was heavier than any file I'd carried.
"Stop defending him. He's not who you think he is."
The words haunted me.
Was it a warning? A threat? Or worse—a truth I didn't want to face?
I climbed the courthouse steps, each one heavier than the last. The truth wasn't just tangled in the lies of this case. It was buried under them, and I was starting to wonder if I'd ever find it.
The courtroom was alive with tension. Every creak of a chair, every shuffle of paper felt magnified in the oppressive silence. The prosecution sat poised, their confidence radiating like a shield.
I took my seat, my fingers brushing over the edges of my files. Across the room, Lorenzo's chair was empty, a glaring absence that felt like an accusation in itself.
And then, the doors opened.
Lorenzo entered, his presence commanding despite the guards at his sides. He walked with the precision of a man who refused to appear defeated, his perfectly tailored suit a silent declaration of his control.
His eyes met mine as he approached the defense table, his lips curving into a faint, unreadable smile.
"Good morning," he said softly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the courtroom.
I didn't respond. Instead, I busied myself with the papers in front of me, ignoring the way his presence seemed to fill the room.
"You're still angry," he observed, his tone calm, almost amused.
"Let's not do this here," I muttered under my breath, refusing to meet his gaze.
Lorenzo leaned in slightly, his voice dropping so only I could hear. "Anger suits you, Elena. It makes you sharper."
I clenched my jaw, biting back the retort that rose to my lips.
The session began with a forensic analyst taking the stand. He was a serious man with gray hair and wire-rimmed glasses, his meticulous demeanor adding weight to every word he spoke.
He laid out the prosecution's case with painstaking detail—blood spatter patterns, ballistic reports, a timeline that painted Lorenzo as the only possible suspect.
"Based on the evidence," he said, his voice steady, "the victim was shot at close range. The trajectory of the bullet indicates the shooter was standing directly in front of him."
"And the murder weapon?" the prosecutor asked.
"It was recovered at the scene—a 9mm pistol with a partial fingerprint on the trigger."
"Was the fingerprint matched to the defendant?"
The analyst hesitated. "It was inconclusive. There weren't enough unique markers to make a definitive match."
The prosecutor quickly moved on, but that hesitation lingered in the air like a crack in an otherwise solid foundation.
When it was my turn to cross-examine, I approached the stand with purpose, every step deliberate.
"You mentioned the fingerprint on the murder weapon was inconclusive," I began, my voice steady. "Could you clarify what that means?"
The analyst shifted in his seat, his composure faltering slightly. "It means the fingerprint didn't contain enough unique markers to positively identify the individual who left it."
"So, it could belong to someone else?"
"Yes," he admitted reluctantly.
"And yet, the prosecution included it as evidence against my client. Why?"
"It's standard procedure to present all evidence related to the case," he said, his tone defensive.
"Even if that evidence is inconclusive?" I pressed.
"Yes."
I paused for a moment, letting the weight of his admission settle over the courtroom. Then, I turned to the jury, my voice firm. "Ladies and gentlemen, the prosecution's case hinges on evidence that even their own expert can't verify. Keep that in mind as you consider the facts."
As I returned to my seat, I felt Lorenzo's gaze on me. He leaned in slightly, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
"Nicely done," he murmured.
I ignored him, focusing instead on the next witness.
During the lunch break, I stepped outside, the cold air biting against my skin as I paced the steps of the courthouse. My mind was a whirlwind of questions, doubts, and fears.
The prosecution's case was strong, but there were cracks—small, almost imperceptible, but enough to create reasonable doubt.
But the real problem wasn't the evidence.
It was Lorenzo.
I had spent weeks trying to untangle the web of lies surrounding him, but the deeper I dug, the more I felt trapped in his game.
"Elena Moretti?"
The voice startled me. I turned to see a man standing a few feet away, his face shadowed by the brim of a dark hat.
"Yes?" I said cautiously.
He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a folded piece of paper, holding it out to me.
"A message," he said simply.
I hesitated before taking it, my fingers brushing against the cold leather of his glove.
"Who sent this?" I asked.
But the man was already walking away, disappearing into the crowd before I could stop him.
I unfolded the note, my heart pounding.
"Stop defending him. He's not who you think he is."
That evening, I sat in my office, the note lying on my desk like a silent accusation.
Who had sent it? The Calvinis? Someone from the prosecution? Or was it from someone closer to Lorenzo—someone who knew what he was hiding?
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the files scattered around me. Every page told a story, but none of them answered the question burning in my mind:
Who was Lorenzo Santini?
I opened my laptop, pulling up everything I'd gathered about him—his business dealings, his rise to power, his connections to Marco Greco. But no matter how deep I dug, the answers eluded me.
Lorenzo was a man of shadows, and I was beginning to realize just how little I knew about him.
The next morning, I met Lorenzo in the holding room before court resumed.
He was seated at the metal table, his hands clasped in front of him. When I entered, he looked up, his expression unreadable.
"You don't look well," he said, his voice soft.
"Neither do you," I shot back, sitting down across from him.
He smirked faintly. "Late night?"
I reached into my pocket, pulling out the note and sliding it across the table. "This was delivered to me yesterday. Care to explain?"
Lorenzo picked up the note, his eyes scanning the words. Then he set it down, his smirk fading.
"And do you believe it?" he asked.
"I don't know what to believe anymore," I admitted, my voice quieter than I intended.
Lorenzo leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "Let me make this simple, Elena. Whoever sent this note? They don't want you to find the truth. They want you to run. Because they know you're the only one who can stop them."
"Stop them from what?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
"From losing," he said simply.
"And you?" I pressed. "What do you want?"
His gaze softened, and for a moment, the mask slipped.
"I want to win," he said. "And I want you to trust me."