The courtroom was electric with tension, the air thick enough to choke. The quiet hum of whispered conversations between reporters and gallery observers felt louder than usual, punctuated by the occasional scrape of a chair or shuffle of papers.
I sat at the defense table, trying to focus on the neat stack of documents in front of me. But my hands betrayed me, trembling as I smoothed the edges of the paper. Every fiber of my being was wound tight, like a taut wire ready to snap.
Lorenzo, as always, sat beside me with an air of calm detachment. He leaned back in his chair, his fingers lightly steepled, his expression betraying no emotion. He looked more like a businessman observing a negotiation than a man fighting for his life.
"You've been quiet," he murmured, his voice low enough that no one else could hear.
"There's a lot on my mind," I replied, keeping my eyes on the judge's bench.
He tilted his head slightly, studying me. "Care to share?"
I turned to him, meeting his gaze. "Are you always like this, or do you save the games just for me?"
His lips curved into a faint smirk. "You bring out the best in me."
I clenched my jaw, biting back a sharp retort as the bailiff called for everyone to rise. The judge entered, his gavel striking once to bring the room to order.
The prosecution wasted no time, rising to present their closing arguments.
The lead prosecutor was a tall, imposing man with a deliberate cadence to his speech. He walked the length of the courtroom with measured steps, his voice carrying a practiced weight as he began to weave his narrative.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," he began, his tone somber, "this case is not just about the murder of Marco Greco. It is about accountability. It is about drawing a line in the sand and saying enough is enough."
He gestured toward Lorenzo, his movements precise. "The evidence we've presented over the past weeks tells a clear story. Lorenzo Santini is not a victim. He is not a man wrongfully accused. He is a manipulator, a criminal mastermind who has spent years orchestrating violence and deceit to maintain his power."
The prosecutor paused, letting his words settle over the room like a heavy fog.
"You've heard from witnesses who worked for him. You've seen the financial records that tie him to the Calvini organization. And you've heard testimony from individuals who risked their lives to expose the truth."
He turned to the jury, his voice rising. "Justice demands that we hold Lorenzo Santini accountable. And that begins with your verdict."
I rose slowly as the prosecutor returned to his seat, every eye in the room turning to me. My heart pounded in my chest, but I kept my expression neutral, walking to the center of the courtroom with deliberate steps.
"Ladies and gentlemen of the jury," I began, folding my hands in front of me. "The prosecution would have you believe that my client is a monster—a man so deeply entrenched in crime that he would betray his own people to save himself. But I ask you to look closer at the evidence. Look beyond the theatrics and speculation to the facts."
I turned slightly, addressing the jury directly. "Over the course of this trial, we've seen witness after witness with ties to the Calvini organization. We've seen financial documents funneled through intermediaries, with no direct connection to my client. And we've seen a prosecution that relies heavily on assumption rather than proof."
I paused, my voice softening. "Justice is not about punishment for the sake of punishment. It's about truth. And the truth is that there is more to this case than meets the eye."
I let my words linger, returning to my seat. Lorenzo's gaze followed me as I sat down, his lips curving into the faintest smirk.
"You enjoy this more than you let on," he said quietly.
"Shut up, Lorenzo," I muttered, refusing to look at him.
The judge dismissed the jury for deliberation, and the courtroom emptied in a slow, tense exodus. Reporters lingered near the doors, their hushed conversations accompanied by the flash of cameras.
I stayed seated, my hands clasped tightly in front of me, my mind spinning.
"You held your own," Lorenzo said, breaking the silence between us.
I turned to him, my voice low. "Don't. Not right now."
He raised an eyebrow. "You're angry."
"Angry doesn't even begin to cover it," I snapped, my voice barely above a whisper. "You've dragged me into something I didn't sign up for, and now I'm supposed to—"
I stopped myself, inhaling sharply.
Lorenzo leaned closer, his tone soft but cutting. "You're supposed to win. That's what you do, isn't it?"
Before I could respond, the bailiff approached, motioning for Lorenzo to be escorted back to the holding cells.
As he rose, Lorenzo glanced at me one last time. "You're good at this, Elena. Better than I expected."
I didn't watch him leave.
That evening, I returned to my apartment, the weight of the trial pressing down on me like a physical force. The photographs Carlo had given me sat on my dining table, alongside the recording of Sofia's confession.
They were a map of corruption—each piece revealing the threads of the Calvinis' influence, the lies woven into every corner of the trial.
But they also painted a target on my back.
The knock at my door came just as I poured a glass of wine. I froze, my hand tightening around the glass as my mind raced.
Another knock, harder this time.
I set the glass down and walked to the door, my pulse pounding in my ears.
"Elena," Carlo's voice came from the other side
Relief flooded me as I opened the door, but the look on his face sent a chill down my spine.
"You need to see this," he said, stepping inside and handing me a manila envelope.
I opened it with trembling hands, pulling out a single photograph.
It showed me—sitting at my dining table, staring at the photographs spread before me.
"They're watching you," Carlo said, his voice grim. "You're not safe anymore."
I stared at the photograph, my breath catching in my throat. Somewhere out there, the Calvinis were waiting, watching my every move.
And they were ready to strike.