"United States versus Vitale, DeLuca, Marino, and Romano," the judge said. "Are the parties ready to proceed?"
Romano. Luca's last name, not Stefan's family. But it still made something twist in my chest every time I heard it.
"The United States is ready, Your Honor," the lead prosecutor said. Her name was Catherine Walsh and she looked like she'd been waiting years for this moment.
"The defense is ready," Diana said.
The trial began.
The first week was opening statements and preliminary witnesses. Establishing the foundation of the case.
Walsh stood before the jury and painted us as a criminal enterprise. Detailed our operations. Our structure. The violence we used to maintain control. She didn't hold back.
"The evidence will show that these four men—" she gestured at our table, "—operated a sophisticated criminal organization for over a decade. They laundered money through legitimate businesses. They extorted payments from business owners. They used violence and intimidation to enforce compliance. This is not alleged criminal activity. This is proven criminal activity, backed by months of surveillance, recorded conversations, and witness testimony you'll hear over the course of this trial."
Diana countered with reasonable doubt. With questions about the legality of the surveillance. With challenges to witness credibility. But her opening felt like throwing rocks at a mountain.
The evidence was overwhelming.
Every night I went home to Inferno and tried not to think about federal prison. About losing decades. About being separated from Stefan by concrete and steel and visiting schedules.
Stefan never asked how the trial was going. Never pushed for reassurance. Just made dinner or ordered takeout and sat with me while I pretended everything was fine.
Week two brought the real damage.
Vincent Paglia took the stand.
Our former accountant. The man who'd embezzled from us and then worn a wire for the FBI to avoid charges. The centerpiece of the prosecution's case.
He looked small and nervous on the witness stand. Nothing like the confident accountant I'd known for years. But his testimony was devastating.
Walsh walked him through it methodically. How he'd started working for us. How he'd gradually learned about our operations. How he'd realized we were laundering money through the restaurants and real estate holdings. How the FBIhad approached him about cooperation after discovering his embezzlement.
"And what did you agree to do for the FBI?" Walsh asked.
"I agreed to wear a recording device. To document conversations about the organization's criminal activities. To gather evidence for their investigation." Vincent's voice was quiet. "In exchange for immunity from prosecution for my embezzlement."
"And over how many months did you record these conversations?"
"Eight months. From January through August of last year."
"And during those eight months, did you record conversations with the defendants?"
"Yes. Many conversations."
Walsh pulled out transcripts. Dozens of them. She walked Vincent through conversation after conversation where we'd discussed operations. Money flows. Problems that needed handling.
Then she got to the violence.
"Mr. Paglia, did you ever witness the defendants use violence or the threat of violence to enforce compliance?"
"Yes. Multiple times."
"Can you describe one instance?"
Vincent looked at our table. His eyes found me. "In March, a restaurant owner named Tony Marconi refused to pay his protection money. Mr. DeLuca was sent to handle it. When he came back, he told Mr. Vitale that Marconi wouldn't be a problem anymore. That he'd learned his lesson."
"And what did Mr. DeLuca mean by that?"
