"On the charge of first-degree murder, we find the defendant…"
The foreman's voice seemed to stretch endlessly in the silent courtroom.
I could hear the blood rushing in my ears, a roaring that drowned out the sound of my own shallow breaths. The room felt smaller, heavier, the walls pressing in as I waited for the word that would decide everything.
"Not guilty."
The words landed like a grenade.
The silence shattered, replaced by chaos. Gasps erupted from the gallery. Reporters bolted toward the exit, their cameras clicking furiously as they scrambled to be the first to break the news. Across the room, the prosecutor froze mid-motion, his face a mask of disbelief.
I barely registered any of it. My body felt disconnected from reality, my mind unable to reconcile what I had just heard.
Not guilty.
Lorenzo turned to me then, and I could feel his eyes on me, sharp and assessing. Slowly, I forced myself to look at him.
His dark eyes gleamed with something that might have been amusement—or triumph. His lips curved into a faint smile, so subtle that only I would notice it.
"You're welcome," he murmured.
I stared at him, my chest tight with an emotion I couldn't name. Relief? Anger? Fear? Maybe all of them.
The gavel struck hard against the judge's bench, jolting me back to the present.
"Order!" the judge barked, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Order in the court!"
Slowly, the noise in the room subsided, though the tension remained thick. Spectators whispered to one another, their voices carrying despite their efforts to be discreet.
The judge turned to the jury, his expression grave. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your service. You are hereby dismissed."
The jurors filed out one by one, their expressions a mix of relief and unease. I watched them go, my heart still racing.
This was it.
The trial was over.
As the courtroom emptied, the prosecutor stormed out, his team trailing behind him in a flurry of hushed whispers and angry gestures. I caught a glimpse of his face—tight with fury and frustration.
He'd lost.
The reporters, meanwhile, swarmed toward the doors, already typing up their stories and preparing their headlines:
"Santini Acquitted in Stunning Verdict."
"Lorenzo Santini Walks Free."
"Mafia Boss Beats Murder Charge."
The noise of their departure filled the room, leaving me and Lorenzo alone at the defense table.
For a moment, I didn't move. My hands rested on the table in front of me, my fingers trembling slightly. The verdict echoed in my mind, over and over.
Lorenzo, meanwhile, was the picture of composure. He leaned back in his chair, his dark suit immaculate, his hands clasped loosely in his lap.
"You're free," I said finally, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Not yet," he replied, glancing at the guards stationed by the door.
The words sent a shiver down my spine. He wasn't wrong. Even with the jury's verdict, his freedom felt… conditional.
"You should be thanking me," I said, louder this time, my voice hardening.
Lorenzo's lips curved into a faint smirk. "Thank you, Elena."
His tone was warm, almost genuine, but it only made my frustration burn hotter.
"You think this is funny?" I snapped, turning to face him fully.
He raised an eyebrow, his smirk fading. "I think it's inevitable."
"Inevitable?" I repeated, my voice rising. "What the hell does that mean? Stefano Marconi. Vittorio Calvini. The fake evidence. The threats. How much of this was you, Lorenzo?"
The room seemed to shrink around us, the air thick with tension. Lorenzo leaned forward slightly, his dark eyes locking onto mine.
"Enough to win," he said simply.
The words hit like a punch to the gut.
"You're a monster," I whispered, my voice trembling.
He smiled faintly, his gaze never wavering. "And you're my monster now."
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. For a moment, I couldn't move, couldn't think.
"You think you own me?" I hissed, my voice barely above a whisper.
"I don't think," Lorenzo said, his tone soft but cutting. "I know."
By the time Lorenzo was escorted out of the courtroom by the guards, the gallery had emptied. I stayed seated, staring at the table in front of me, my mind spinning.
This wasn't over. Not even close.
The verdict was just the beginning.
Outside, the courthouse steps were packed with reporters and photographers. The moment Lorenzo stepped through the doors, they surged forward like a tide, their voices overlapping in a chaotic cacophony of questions.
"Mr. Santini, what do you have to say about the verdict?"
"Do you deny your connections to the Calvini family?"
"Do you have any comment for Marco Greco's family?"
Lorenzo ignored them, his expression calm as ever. His guards formed a tight circle around him, pushing back the crowd as they made their way to a waiting car.
I stayed back, watching from the shadows.
He turned briefly, his eyes finding mine through the chaos. For a moment, I thought I saw something in his expression—something softer, almost human.
Then he smirked, and the moment was gone.
"See you soon," he said, his voice low enough that only I could hear.
I didn't respond.
As he climbed into the car and it pulled away, I felt the weight of his words settle over me like a heavy blanket.
He wasn't done with me.
And I wasn't sure I was done with him, either.
That night, I sat alone in my apartment, the photographs spread across my dining table.
Carlo's warning echoed in my mind: "They're watching you."
The image of myself, captured by some unseen camera, sent a chill down my spine. The Calvinis weren't just pulling strings behind the scenes—they were watching my every move, waiting for me to slip.
I poured myself a glass of wine, my hands trembling slightly as I raised it to my lips. The bitterness of the drink did nothing to dull the storm inside me.
A knock at the door shattered the silence.
I froze, my heart pounding in my chest. For a moment, I couldn't move, my mind racing with possibilities.
"Elena," a voice called softly.
I exhaled shakily, recognizing Carlo's voice. I set the glass down and crossed the room, opening the door to find him standing in the hallway.
He stepped inside quickly, closing the door behind him.
"What now?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
Carlo handed me another envelope, his expression grim.
"This was left at my office," he said.
I opened it carefully, my stomach twisting as I pulled out the contents.
It was another photograph.
This time, it wasn't Lorenzo. It wasn't Stefano Marconi or Vittorio Calvini.
It was me.
The image was grainy but clear enough to send a chill down my spine. It showed me standing outside the courthouse earlier that day, my gaze fixed on Lorenzo's car as it drove away.
"They're still watching," Carlo said quietly.
I sank into the nearest chair, clutching the photograph in my trembling hands.
The Calvinis weren't done with me.
And somewhere out there, Lorenzo Santini was waiting.