Because I believed him.
Against all logic and evidence and professional training, I believed him.
And that faith—that trust—that was either going to save us both or destroy us completely.
I'd find out which soon enough.
CHAPTER 22: SANDRO
THE TRIAL DRAGGEDon for three more weeks after Emilio's testimony. A parade of witnesses, each one contradicting the others in subtle ways. Medical experts discussing the severity of Antonio Costello's injuries. Character witnesses for both sides. The standard machinery of criminal justice grinding forward with agonizing slowness.
I attended every day. Sat at the defense table in perfectly tailored suits. Maintained the image of a successful businessman being persecuted by overzealous prosecutors. Diana did competent work—objecting at the right moments, cross-examining effectively, building reasonable doubt piece by piece.
But she wasn't Emilio. Every day I was reminded of that fact.
Emilio attended every session from the gallery. Took notes in his leather notebook. Occasionally caught my eye with small gestures of support. We couldn't be seen together outside the courtroom—not with the jury watching, not with reporters documenting every interaction. So we existed in separate worlds during the day and came together only at night.
It was torture of a particular kind. Seeing him. Not being able to touch him. Knowing he was analyzing every word, every strategy, every missed opportunity. Knowing he could've done this better if circumstances were different.
Week four began with Roberto Green's announcement that changed everything.
"The People call Antonio Costello to the stand."
The nephew. The alleged victim. The centerpiece of the prosecution's case.
He walked to the witness stand wearing a conservative suit that probably cost his family a fortune. His left arm still showed signs of the break—slight stiffness in his movement, careful positioning. The injury Matteo had caused defending our waitress from a drunk with a knife.
Or the injury Matteo had caused in an unprovoked attack, if you believed the prosecution's version.
Antonio was sworn in and settled into the witness chair. He looked nervous but rehearsed. Like he'd practiced his testimony until it was perfect.
"Mr. Costello," Roberto began. "Can you tell us what happened on the night of June fifteenth at Inferno nightclub?"
"I was there with friends. We were celebrating a birthday." Antonio's voice was steady. Confident. "I'd had a couple beers. We were dancing. Having a good time."
"What happened next?"
"I went to the bar to order another round. The bartender said I'd had enough. I tried to explain I was just ordering for my friends, not for myself. But he refused." Antonio shifted in his seat. "Then this huge guy—the security guard—came over and grabbed me. Started dragging me toward the exit."
"Did you resist?"
"I asked him what he was doing. Told him I hadn't done anything wrong. He didn't say anything. Just kept pulling me." Antonio touched his left arm unconsciously. "Then he threw me against the wall. I heard something crack. The pain was incredible."
"What did you do?"
"I tried to get away from him. But he grabbed my arm—the broken one—and twisted it. I was screaming. Begging him to stop. He just kept twisting until I blacked out from the pain."
Roberto walked closer to the witness stand. "Did you do anything to provoke this attack?"
"No. I was just trying to order drinks for my friends."
"Did you have any weapons on you?"
"No. I don't carry weapons."
"Did you threaten anyone?"
"No. I was just having a good time at a club. Then I got assaulted by their security guard for no reason."
