The drive back to my apartment was soundless, the city lights blurring as my thoughts twisted tighter with every turn of the wheel. Lorenzo's voice haunted me.
"You're not a pawn, Elena. You're the only one I trust."
Trust. The word carried no weight coming from him. How could it? He'd built his empire on manipulation and lies, each carefully crafted to serve his needs. And yet, there was something in his tone—low, raw, unguarded—that made me hesitate.
Was it the truth? Or another carefully constructed illusion meant to keep me in his orbit?
My eyes darted to the briefcase in the passenger seat. Inside were the photographs Carlo had given me: grainy, incriminating images of Lorenzo sitting with Vittorio Calvini.
My fingers tightened on the wheel. If those photos were real, then Lorenzo wasn't just a victim in this trial. He was playing a much larger game—one that I was now unwittingly a part of.
I didn't sleep that night.
The photographs lay spread out on my dining table, each one more damning than the last.
Lorenzo. Vittorio. The two names that had dominated this trial.
According to Lorenzo, Vittorio was the mastermind behind Marco Greco's murder, the architect of a plot to frame him and dismantle the Santini empire. But the photographs told a different story.
In one, Lorenzo leaned forward, his expression animated as he spoke. In another, Vittorio smiled faintly, his hand resting on the edge of a glass.
The timestamps on the photos told me everything I needed to know. The meeting had taken place a week before Marco's death—during a period when Lorenzo claimed to be in Rome, negotiating with legitimate investors.
My hand shook as I picked up my wine glass, the weight of the lies pressing down on me.
Lorenzo hadn't been in Rome. He'd been in Milan, sitting across from the man he'd sworn was his enemy.
I leaned back in my chair, the wine burning down my throat. My mind raced with questions, each one more maddening than the last.
Why had Lorenzo met with Vittorio? What had they discussed?
And, more importantly, had Marco Greco been caught in the middle of their plans?
The next morning, I arrived at the courthouse early, the photographs burning a hole in my briefcase. The air inside the courtroom was thick with tension, a silent energy that radiated from every corner.
The prosecution had been building their case with precision, each witness chipping away at Lorenzo's credibility. Giovanni De Luca had painted him as ruthless. Sofia Ferraro had implicated him in her lies. And now, Marco Petrucci—a man with deep ties to the Calvinis—was their next weapon.
I sat at the defense table, laying out my notes with shaking hands. Across the room, Lorenzo's chair was empty.
He arrived a few moments later, escorted by two guards. His presence commanded attention, as always, but there was something different about him today. His smirk was absent, his jaw set, his dark eyes scanning the room with a sharp intensity.
When he sat beside me, he said nothing for a long moment. Then, quietly:
"You've seen them."
I didn't look at him. "Seen what?"
"The photographs," he said, his voice low. "You have them, don't you?"
I stiffened, my hands stilling on the table.
"Not here," I whispered through gritted teeth.
Lorenzo chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair. "As you wish."
Marco Petrucci took the stand mid-morning.
He was everything I expected—broad-shouldered, cold-eyed, and radiating quiet menace. His suit didn't quite fit, the collar of his shirt stretched tight around his thick neck.
The lead prosecutor wasted no time.
"Mr. Petrucci," he began, his voice sharp and deliberate. "Can you describe your relationship with the Calvinis?"
Petrucci nodded, his expression unreadable. "I worked for them. Ran jobs. Handled problems."
"And during your time working for them, did you ever encounter Lorenzo Santini?"
"Yes."
"When was the first time you met Mr. Santini?"
Petrucci smirked faintly. "A few months ago. He came to us, looking for protection."
The gallery erupted into whispers, the tension in the room palpable.
The prosecutor allowed the murmurs to linger before continuing.
"Protection from what?"
"From himself," Petrucci said, his tone dripping with disdain. "He was losing control, and he knew it. So, he came to make a deal."
"What kind of deal?"
"Money," Petrucci replied, shrugging. "And information about his own people."
A collective gasp rippled through the gallery.
I felt Lorenzo's gaze on me, but I refused to look at him.
The prosecutor turned to the jury, his expression triumphant. "So, Mr. Santini betrayed his own crew to save himself?"
"Yes," Petrucci said.
When it was my turn to cross-examine, I rose slowly, my heels clicking against the polished floor.
"Mr. Petrucci," I began, my voice steady. "You've admitted to working for the Calvinis. Is that correct?"
"Yes."
"And during your time with them, how many times have you been arrested?"
Petrucci's smirk faltered slightly. "A few."
"A few," I repeated. "Would you care to elaborate?"
"Objection," the prosecutor interrupted. "Irrelevant."
"Sustained," the judge said, cutting me off.
I shifted tactics, stepping closer to the stand. "You claim my client came to the Calvinis for protection. Do you have any evidence to support this claim? A recording? A written agreement?"
"No."
"So, we're supposed to take your word for it?"
"Yes," he said confidently.
I turned to the jury, letting his arrogance linger in the air. Then, I nodded and returned to my seat.
Lorenzo leaned in as I sat down, his voice barely above a whisper.
"Do you think they bought him?" he asked.
I didn't respond.
During the afternoon recess, I stepped outside, the cold air biting against my skin. My thoughts were tangled, each one pulling me in a different direction.
"Elena," a voice called out.
I turned to see Carlo approaching, his expression grim.
"What is it?" I asked.
He handed me a folder, his hand lingering as though reluctant to let go.
"These came in this morning," he said quietly.
Inside were more photographs, this time showing Petrucci meeting with members of the prosecution team in a dimly lit cafe.
"They're paying him," Carlo said, his voice low. "It's not just a deal for leniency. They've bought him outright."
I stared at the images, my stomach twisting. The prosecution had been parading Petrucci as a credible witness, but now the cracks in their narrative were too large to ignore.
That evening, I returned to my apartment, the photographs from Carlo spread out alongside the ones of Lorenzo and Vittorio Calvini.
The contradictions were maddening.
Lorenzo wasn't just fighting to clear his name. He was fighting for control.
And now, so was I.