Stefan handled it with surprising grace. Said "no comment" every time. Kept walking. Didn't engage. Eventually most of them got bored and moved on.
But the damage—or the revelation, depending on perspective—was done.
Everyone knew. Giuseppe knew. The other Romano family members knew. The rival families knew. There was no taking it back. No hiding. No pretending this was temporary or strategic or anything except what it was.
Stefan Romano had chosen Matteo DeLuca. Publicly. Permanently. During a federal RICO trial that could destroy everything.
The trial dragged on. Week after week of testimony and evidence and legal maneuvering.
The prosecution was relentless. They had witnesses who testified about extortion. About violence. About the money laundering operation. They had recordings that corroborated everything.
Diana fought hard. She got several pieces of evidence excluded on procedural grounds. She destroyed the credibility of two prosecution witnesses. She made compelling arguments about the overbroad surveillance warrants.
But the foundation of the case was solid. Too solid.
Every night I went home to Stefan. We made dinner or ordered in. Sat together on the couch. Tried to have normal conversations about anything except the trial.
But the reality was always there. Hanging over us like a guillotine.
I might be convicted. Might lose decades. Might be separated from Stefan by a verdict I couldn't control.
And Stefan sat in that courtroom every single day. Front row. Visible. Present.
When the prosecution presented particularly damaging evidence, Stefan was there.
When Diana scored a victory in cross-examination, Stefan was there.
When I looked back during difficult testimony and needed an anchor, Stefan was there.
Just being present in ways I'd never experienced before.
We developed a routine. Court during the day. Home at night. Holding each other. Trying to memorize details in case these were our last weeks of freedom together.
The way Stefan smelled like coffee and something uniquely him.
The sound of his laugh when I said something unexpectedly funny.
The feel of his hand in mine during courthouse recesses.
The way he hummed while reading, that three-note pattern that drove me crazy in the best way.
All the small details that made up a life together. That we might lose.
One night, lying in bed, Stefan said: "What happens if you're convicted?"
We'd been avoiding the direct question. Dancing around it. But Stefan's tone said he needed to face it head-on.
"Then I go to federal prison," I said. "Probably for twenty years minimum. Maybe life."
"And where do I go?"
"You stay here. At Inferno. Sandro will make sure you're protected. You keep working on the books. You—" I stopped. "You live your life, Stefan. You don't put it on hold for me."
"We already had this conversation."
"I know. But I need to hear you say it again. Need to know you understand what you're agreeing to."
Stefan turned to face me. "If you're convicted, I stay at Inferno because it's home. I keep working because it gives me purpose. I visit you every week because I love you. I write every day because I need you to know you're not alone." His voice was firm. "And I wait. However long it takes. Whether it's twenty years or longer. I wait."
