Chapter 16
Turo
Family court is not builtfor men like me. There are no weapons. No raised voices. No visible hierarchies. Just wood benches worn smooth by other people’s fear, fluorescent lights that flatten everyone into something smaller, and the quiet lie that order means justice.
I sit one row behind Marco. A visual suggestion of stability without intrusion. Enzo sits at Marco’s shoulder like a fixture. Mentor, anchor, proof of guidance. His presence is intentional. A calm man beside an unstable one reads as progress. Redemption by proximity.
His hand rests briefly on Marco’s back, right between the shoulder blades. A grounding touch. Not affectionate. Supportive, without ownership.
Optics matter here.
Marco’s knee bounces once. Stops. He exhales through his nose, like he’s been taught. Rehab has given him new habits. Not better ones. Just quieter.
He leans slightly toward Enzo, voice low, confident enough to assume privacy in a room full of strangers. “This judge?” Marco murmurs. “I’ve seen his record. Favors fathers who show up.”
Enzo nods, eyes forward. “Consistency plays well.”
Marco smirks. “Good thing I’ve been consistent lately.”
That word lately does a lot of work.
He shifts in his seat, straightens his jacket like he’s stepping into a role he’s rehearsed. “She won’t even show,” Marco continues. “Women like that never do. They disappear until money’s involved.”
Enzo hums softly. Agreement disguised as neutrality.
“If she does,” Marco adds, “she’ll look unstable. No lawyer worth anything lets a woman like that walk in without a plan.”
“A mother without structure,” Enzo says mildly, as if offering a clinical observation instead of a verdict.
Marco’s mouth twitches. “Exactly.”
I watch Marco’s hands. They’re steady. That’s the part that bothers me.
“I mean, come on,” Marco goes on. “I’m clean. I’m trying. I’ve got family support.” He flicks a glance backward, just enough to acknowledge me without inviting my voice. “Judges eat that shit up.”
Enzo tilts his head. “Responsibility reads well.”
Marco snorts quietly. “And blood’s blood. That still counts for something.”
It shouldn’t. But in rooms like this, it does.
Marco leans back, spreading his arms along the bench like he owns the space. Like this is already done.
“She ran,” he says, almost pleasantly. “That tells you everything.”
Enzo doesn’t contradict him.
Marco lowers his voice further, almost amused. “I just want what’s mine. Court likes that. Sounds wholesome.”
Mine. The word lands wrong. My chest tightens. A warning. The same internal shift that happens when a room changes temperature too fast.
Marco grins to himself, satisfied. “DNA’ll shut her up. One test, and it’s over.”
Enzo nods once. “Truth simplifies things.”
The clerk clears her throat at the front of the room. Marco straightens, smoothing his expression into something almost sincere. Enzo withdraws his hand, folding it neatly in his lap. Masks in place.
The clerk calls the case. “Mancini v. Cannata.”
