Enzo Valenti looked like he’d stepped out of a boardroom, his suit immaculate, his expression unreadable. But his eyes were on me, and there was something in them I couldn’t quite parse. Anger, maybe. Or disappointment. Or both.
Angelo was there too, looking exhausted and nervous. And next to him, surprisingly, was Heather. She caught me looking and didn’t look away, just lifted her chin slightly. Not quite friendly, but not hostile either.
The guard directed me to the defense table, and I sat down heavily, my cuffs rattling. A moment later, the side door opened and a man in a sharp suit strode in, his briefcase swinging. He was older, maybe sixty, with silver hair and the kind of face thathad seen a thousand courtrooms. I recognized him immediately as the family lawyer.
“Mr. Valenti,” he said quietly, taking the seat beside me. “We don’t have much time, so listen carefully.”
“Where have you been?” I hissed.
“I’ve been prepping for this arraignment for two days,” he replied cheerfully. “Pretty good turnout, huh?”
I just stared at him. “Are you happy there’s a crowd?”
He nodded. “It’ll make things easier.”
“Easier?!” I hissed. “Are you trying to get me imprisoned for life?”
“Mr. Valenti, there’s only one thing you need to do today,” he said, his voice cool and collected. “Don’t say a single word. That’s it.”
“But—”
He held up a hand. “Not asingleone. I’ve got this under control.”
I wanted to argue, but the bailiff called for everyone to stand as the judge entered. She was an older woman with steel-gray hair and reading glasses perched on her nose and took her seat with the kind of efficiency that spoke of decades on the bench.
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Lorelei Brennan,” the bailiff announced.
Everyone sat back down, and I felt the weight of all those eyes on me. The reporters were already scribbling notes, cameras clicking despite the bailiff’s earlier warning. Judge Brennan gaveled the room to order.
“Case number 2024-CR-8847, State of New Jersey versus Dante Valenti,” she read from the docket. “The defendant is charged with four counts of first-degree murder in the deaths of Thomas Benson, Margaret Benson, Emily Benson, and Jacob Benson.”
Hearing it laid out like that made my stomach turn. Four lives. An entire family. And they thought I’d killed them all.
“How does the defendant plead?” Judge Brennan asked.
My lawyer stood smoothly. “Your Honor, before we enter a plea, the defense would like to move for immediate dismissal of all charges.”
A murmur rippled through the courtroom. I saw Caruso lean forward at the prosecution table, his expression darkening. The lead prosecutor, a woman with sharp features and sharper eyes, stood up.
“Your Honor, this is highly irregular?—”
“It’s well within our rights,” my lawyer interrupted. “And I believe once you hear our reasoning, you’ll agree that these charges are baseless.”
Judge Brennan looked annoyed. “Mr. Sullivan, I don’t have time for theatrics. This is an arraignment, not a trial.”
“I understand that, Your Honor. But the prosecution’s entire case rests on the premise that my client murdered four people.” He paused for effect. “People who are, in fact, very much alive.”
The courtroom erupted. Reporters shouted questions, the gallery buzzed with confused chatter, and Judge Brennan had to gavel three times to restore order.
“Explain yourself, counselor,” she demanded.
“The Benson family is alive and well,” Sullivan said calmly. “And they’re here today, ready to testify to that fact.”
Caruso shot to his feet. “This is absurd! We have evidence—blood, DNA?—”
“Staged,” Sullivan said. “All of it. The Bensons faked their deaths to escape both mob retaliation and law enforcement pressure. They’ve been living peacefully in Costa Rica under assumed names for months.”
“Your Honor, this is a desperate attempt—” the prosecutor started.
