I don’t have to wonder if she knows I’m getting out. Of course, she knows. Though she likely wasn’t expecting me to get out any time soon.
I do wonder if she’s scared. I wonder if she has fear in her eyes as she hides behind her husband’s money.
She should be.
The judge leans back. “I have considered the arguments,” he says.
His tone is the one judges use when they want to sound impenetrable. It never fools anyone who’s been in enough courtrooms. The decision is already in his eyes. “Mr. Conti has served eleven years. The last four years reflect sustained compliance with institutional rules. The state’s concerns are not trivial, but they are speculative at this juncture. I am granting the Petition For Release, subject to conditions: strict reporting, travel restrictions, electronic monitoring for a period to bespecified in the order. Any violation will result in immediate remand. Do you understand me, Mr. Conti?”
Freedom has a sound; it’s a small one, easy to miss if you haven’t learned to listen for it. It’s the click of an unlocked latch. It’s the exhale you didn’t know you were holding for four years straight.
“Yes, Your Honor,” I say. My voice is steady. It costs me nothing to be polite to a man who just gave me a door.
Maybe I’ll let him live.
Behind me, someone sucks in a breath. Roberto dips his head slightly like he just won a wager he never doubted.
The prosecutor doesn’t show anything. She has a good mask. I can appreciate craftsmanship. Her eyes meet the judge’s, not mine, and she says, “The government requests heightened supervision and a prohibition on contact with victims and witnesses, Your Honor.”
“Granted,” he says. Of course, he grants it. He’s already measured out the ration of mercy he’s willing to give me; sprinkling more conditions over it lets him feel careful instead of generous.
“We’ll set reporting twice weekly for the first six months. You will surrender your passport, Mr. Conti. You will not leave the city without permission. You will avoid contact with co-defendants, witnesses, and any individuals under indictment. Do you understand?”
“I do.” I keep my eyes on him, but I can feel the prosecutor’s gaze skim across me like a blade. Good.
The judge bangs the gavel. A small, ceremonial sound.
And I’m free.
There’s a stir, papers sliding, the crackle of hushed voices returning as if a dam broke. Roberto squeezes my shoulder—a quick press that says everything we can’t express with words right now.
“We’re done,” he breathes. “We walk.”
We walk.
Vito is on me first, hands on my shoulders, eyes bright like a kid who just saw a trick with fire. “Papà.”
“Vito.” I take his face in my hands for a second, thumb against the scratch of stubble, the heat of his skin. He smells like cologne and ammunition. “You kept it together.”
“For you,” he says, and that’s almost true. For him, too. For the idea of me.
Nico steps in, quieter. He doesn’t hug. He never has. He touches my elbow, a point of contact so small it could be mistaken for nothing by anyone who doesn’t know him. “We have the car,” he says. “Side entrance. No press there.”
“Good.” I look past him because I can’t help it. The empty space on the bench can’t be ignored.
Then, “Caterina.”
She comes forward like the queen she is—calm and regal, her only tell is the way her hands twist once, quickly, and then still.
“Papà.” Her voice trembles only on the last letter, and only a man who taught her to be as hard as steel would hear it. She kisses both my cheeks. “Let’s go home.”
“Home,” I say, and let the word sit on my tongue.
“Mr. Conti.” The voice is smooth and female and not afraid. The prosecutor is closer than she was, but not stupidly close. Two paces away, flanked by a marshal who thinks his presence will matter if I decide to be idiotic. She holds a paper out to Roberto, not me. “Conditions of release. He’ll need to sign an acknowledgment.”
Roberto takes it. “Of course.”
Her eyes flick to me then, brief, clinical. Up close, the color is unmistakable: blue with that sharp, courtroom brightness that makes them look like cut stone. She looks at me the way you look at a problem that will keep you up at night until you solve it. Not hatred. Not fear. Purpose. It’s almost… refreshing.
