"I later learned that Mr. DeLuca had broken Marconi's arm."
"Objection," Diana said immediately. "Hearsay. The witness didn't observe this directly."
"Sustained," the judge said.
But the damage was done. The jury had heard it.
Walsh moved on. "Mr. Paglia, can you identify the four defendants in this courtroom?"
Vincent pointed. "Mr. Vitale. Mr. DeLuca. Mr. Marino. Mr. Romano."
Each name felt like a nail in a coffin.
"And based on your eight months of recording conversations and observing their operations, can you describe the role each defendant played in this criminal enterprise?"
Diana objected. The judge overruled. Vincent described our roles in detail.
Sandro: the strategist. The money man. The one who made the decisions.
Elio: the planner. The one who handled security and logistics.
Luca: the face. The one who charmed clients and maintained legitimate fronts.
Me: the enforcer. The one who handled problems. The one who made sure people complied through fear and violence.
It was all true. Every word. I couldn't even pretend it was lies or exaggeration.
I looked back at Stefan. He was pale but his eyes were steady on mine.
Still here. Still present. Even hearing testimony about violence I'd committed. About people I'd hurt. About the criminal I actually was.
The cross-examination did some damage to Vincent's credibility. Diana hammered on his embezzlement. On the fact that he'd stolen from us for months before the FBI caught him. On his immunity deal and how it gave him every incentive to exaggerate or fabricate evidence.
But the recordings existed. The financial records existed. The evidence was real.
One witness with credibility problems couldn't erase eight months of documentation.
That night, I couldn't pretend anymore.
Stefan and I were in the apartment. He was making tea. I was sitting at the kitchen table staring at nothing.
"The defense is struggling," I said.
Stefan turned. Set down the kettle. "I know."
"The evidence is overwhelming. Vincent's testimony is damaging. The recordings corroborate everything he's saying. Diana's doing her best but—" I stopped. "I might actually be convicted, Stefan. Might spend the next twenty years in federal prison. Maybe longer."
"I know," he said again.
"Do you understand what that means?" I looked at him. "If I'm convicted, you're alone. No me to protect you. No daily presence. Just prison visits and letters and decades of waiting for something that might never happen."
"I understand."
"Then why are you still here?" My voice cracked. "Why are you sitting in that courtroom every day watching me get buried by evidence? Why haven't you left yet?"
"Because I love you." He crossed to me. Pulled out a chair and sat. "Because you're it for me. Because I made a choice to stay and I'm not backing out just because things got hard."
"This isn't hard, Stefan. This is catastrophic. If I'm convicted—"
