The photograph stayed on my table like a quiet threat.
In the dim light of the early morning, it seemed even more ominous—grainy but unmistakable. A man sat across from Lorenzo in a darkened room, his face shadowed, but his posture screamed of authority. Stefano Marconi.
I couldn't sleep after Carlo delivered it. How could I?
This wasn't just another thread in the tangled web of the trial; it was a noose tightening around Lorenzo's neck.
Stefano Marconi wasn't just some soldier in the Calvini family—he was their hammer, the man they sent to deliver messages when words wouldn't suffice.
The timestamp on the surveillance footage burned into my mind: three weeks before Marco Greco's death.
I'd spent weeks convincing myself that Lorenzo was being framed. That the Calvinis were pulling the strings and that he was the victim in all of this. But this photograph shook the foundation of that belief.
If Lorenzo had met with Marconi, it wasn't a coincidence.
The courthouse loomed larger than ever as I arrived that morning, its gray stone facade blending into the overcast sky. The usual crowd of reporters was there, shouting questions as I walked up the steps, their cameras flashing like gunfire.
"Ms. Moretti, do you have any comment on the jury's deliberations?"
"Is it true that Mr. Santini laundered money for the Calvinis?"
"Will today be the end for Lorenzo Santini?"
I ignored them, my heels clicking against the marble as I pushed through the doors.
Inside, the atmosphere was quieter but no less charged. The tension was suffocating, every conversation hushed, every glance sharp. Everyone was waiting for the jury to deliver their verdict, and the anticipation hung over us like a storm cloud.
I found Lorenzo waiting in the defense room, already seated at the table. The guards who'd escorted him stood by the door, their expressions stoic as they watched over us.
"You're late," he said, his tone almost conversational.
I raised an eyebrow, setting my briefcase down with more force than necessary. "I've been here for twenty minutes."
His lips curved into a faint smirk, but it didn't reach his eyes. "Not physically. Mentally."
"Spare me the psychoanalysis," I muttered, pulling out my files. "We're running out of time for games, Lorenzo."
His smirk faded, replaced by something sharper. "And yet, here you are. Still playing."
I opened my briefcase and pulled out the photograph Carlo had given me, sliding it across the table. "Explain this."
Lorenzo didn't react at first. He picked up the photograph, studying it for a long moment before leaning back in his chair.
"Where did you get this?"
"Carlo," I said, crossing my arms. "And don't deflect. What were you doing meeting with Stefano Marconi three weeks before Marco Greco was murdered?"
His gaze flicked back to the photograph, his expression unreadable. "Do you trust Carlo?"
"What does that have to do with anything?"
"Do you trust him?" Lorenzo repeated, his voice quiet but firm.
I hesitated, and that was all the answer he needed.
Lorenzo set the photograph down, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. "If you're asking whether this is real, the answer is yes. I met with Marconi."
"Why?" I demanded. "What were you doing?"
He leaned forward, his dark eyes locking onto mine. "Do you really think I'd tell you that?"
I stared at him, my frustration bubbling to the surface. "If you're innocent, you'd have nothing to hide."
His lips twitched into a faint smile. "Innocence is a dangerous thing to rely on, Elena. You should know that by now."
"That's not an answer," I snapped.
"It's the only answer you're going to get," he said calmly. "If you think this photograph is enough to destroy me, then use it. But let me give you some advice: once you play that card, you can't take it back. And you'd better be ready for what comes next."
I spent the rest of the morning pacing the courthouse hallways, my thoughts a whirlwind of doubt and fear.
The photograph felt like a time bomb in my briefcase. If I used it, it could tip the scales in the trial—but it could also confirm the prosecution's narrative and bury Lorenzo for good.
And then there was the Calvinis. If they found out I had this photograph, I'd be next on their list.
"Elena."
Carlo's voice startled me, and I turned to see him walking toward me with a grim expression.
"Don't tell me there's more," I said.
He handed me a manila envelope without a word. My stomach sank as I opened it, pulling out a grainy surveillance image.
It showed me.
Sitting at my dining table, staring at the evidence Carlo had given me.
"They're watching you," Carlo said quietly.
I stared at the photograph, my blood running cold. Somewhere out there, the Calvinis were watching my every move.
"You need to leave this case," Carlo continued. "Walk away while you still can."
I shook my head, my voice trembling. "If I walk away now, they'll come after me anyway. The only way out is through."
Carlo's expression hardened. "Then you'd better be ready to fight."
By midday, the jury had reached a decision.
The announcement spread through the courthouse like wildfire, reporters scrambling for their cameras and microphones as spectators filed back into the courtroom.
I sat at the defense table, my hands clasped tightly in front of me. Lorenzo was seated beside me, his posture as relaxed as ever.
He glanced at me, his voice low. "You look pale."
"Thanks," I muttered.
"Don't worry," he said, a faint smirk playing on his lips. "You're better at this than you think."
Before I could respond, the jury filed back into the room, their expressions carefully neutral. The judge called for silence, his gavel striking once to bring the court to order.
The foreman rose, holding a piece of paper in his hands.
"Has the jury reached a verdict?" the judge asked.
"Yes, Your Honor," the foreman replied.
The room was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat.
The foreman unfolded the paper, his voice steady as he spoke.
"On the charge of first-degree murder, we find the defendant…"