The courtroom smelled faintly of polished wood and tension. Rows of people filled the benches—reporters scribbling in notebooks, murmuring spectators craning their necks, and officers lining the walls, hands resting near their belts. The air was thick, suffocating almost, as if the very walls knew the weight of what was about to be decided.
Serena Vale adjusted the lapel of her navy suit jacket, steadying her breath. Her pulse raced, but outwardly, she was calm—collected, professional, every inch the lawyer her reputation promised her to be. Her brown eyes flicked briefly to the defendant: Marco Santorutto.
The notorious crime boss lounged in his chair as if he owned the place. His dark hair was slicked back, his sharp suit tailored to perfection, but there was no disguising the malice that simmered in his gaze. He smirked when their eyes met, and it sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
You've done this before, Serena, she reminded herself. He's just another man hiding behind power. Strip that away, and he's nothing.
The judge's gavel struck, silencing the murmurs. "The court will come to order."
The prosecutor's questioning continued. Serena sat poised at the witness stand, her oath still echoing in her ears. She spoke clearly, every word sharp, precise. "The evidence submitted confirms that Mr. Santorutto ordered the shipment of illegal arms into the state. Documents bearing his signature, financial trails leading to offshore accounts—it all ties back to him. No one else had the authority or the means."
The defense attorney rose, trying to rattle her. His voice dripped with false confidence. "Miss Vale, isn't it true that your testimony relies heavily on secondhand reports and circumstantial evidence? Without direct proof, how can this court believe—"
Serena cut him off with a steady tone. "The proof lies in patterns. In the coded emails. In the ledger recovered from his lieutenant's safe. Santorutto didn't just make mistakes—he left a trail because he thought he was untouchable. Today, he learns he's not."
A ripple of whispers passed through the audience. Santorutto's smirk faltered for the briefest second before returning, sharper this time—like a blade drawn across glass.
The judge leaned forward. "The witness will be excused."
Serena stepped down, her heels clicking against the polished floor. She could feel the weight of Santorutto's gaze boring into her back. She refused to flinch.
When the verdict was delivered—guilty on all counts—the room erupted. Spectators gasped, reporters rushed for the doors, and uniformed officers moved swiftly toward Santorutto.
That was when his composure finally snapped.
"You bitch!" he roared, lunging against the officers restraining him. His voice cracked through the courtroom like thunder. "I'll kill you! You and your mother—just like your father. You hear me? You're dead!"
Serena froze mid-step. The words cut through her armor like knives. Her father. The memory was always there, buried under years of discipline and resilience. But Santorutto's words yanked it into the open, raw and bleeding.
Her mother. Her father's death. How does he know?
The officers dragged him toward the door, his curses echoing even as they forced him out. The judge shouted for order, but Serena barely heard it. Her mind was a whirl of confusion and dread.
By the time the courtroom cleared, her legs felt heavy. She gathered her files with trembling hands, ignoring the sympathetic looks thrown her way. She had won—Santorutto was going to prison—but victory had never tasted so bitter.
The courthouse lobby was bustling with life, a sharp contrast to the suffocating silence of the courtroom. Lawyers hurried past, clutching briefcases. Reporters lingered, waiting for a statement. The marble floor gleamed under the fluorescent lights.
Serena walked quickly, hugging her files close, her mind replaying Santorutto's threat. She wasn't afraid of dying—that came with the job. But his mention of her father… it gnawed at her. He couldn't have known. Unless—
Her thoughts scattered as she collided hard with someone rounding the corner.
"Oh!" Papers slipped from her arms, spilling like a cascade onto the floor. Serena bent instantly, cheeks flushing. "I'm so sorry—I wasn't looking where I was going."
The man crouched down with her, his movements smooth, deliberate. "No harm done," he said, his voice deep, steady, with the kind of calm that seemed to carry weight.
Serena glanced up—and for a moment, she forgot to breathe.
He was tall, broad-shouldered, dressed in a dark suit that looked almost too perfectly tailored. His eyes—stormy gray, unreadable—locked on hers. There was something dangerous about them, something that sent a chill racing down her spine and heat flushing her cheeks all at once.
He handed her a stack of papers, his fingers brushing hers briefly. It was nothing. Yet it felt like everything.
"Thank you," she murmured, trying to regain her composure.
"Of course." His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile—more like a secret he wasn't ready to share.
Together, they gathered the rest of her things. In the rush, she didn't notice until she bent to pick up the final sheet that something else lay among the papers. A watch. Heavy, silver, expensive.
She picked it up, frowning. "This must be yours."
When she looked up, ready to hand it back, he was gone.
The lobby was full of people, yet somehow he had disappeared into the crowd without a trace. Serena straightened slowly, clutching the watch.
"Strange," she whispered to herself.
The cold weight of the timepiece in her hand felt deliberate, almost as though it had been left there for her.
Far above, in an office overlooking the courthouse, Dante Moretti stood by the window, watching the lobby below. He saw her hesitate, saw the moment her fingers curled around the watch.
Luca's voice broke the silence behind him. "You dropped it?"
Dante's lips curved, sharp and knowing. "No. I placed it."