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9

DANTE

T he Manhattan courtroom felt smaller than I remembered, its wood paneling and stark fluorescent lights a far cry from the peaceful sanctuary of Canada Lake. My hands rested on the polished surface of the table where I sat with the prosecution, waiting for the proceedings to begin. The familiar weight of my shoulder holster was absent—no weapons allowed in court—making me feel oddly vulnerable.

I’d spent the sleepless night before in my hotel room, reviewing my testimony, but my thoughts kept drifting to Lark and how the moonlight had caught her hair as she’d kissed my cheek. The gentle press of her body against mine when I’d pulled her from the flooded basement.

Then memories of another time had intruded—Vincent teaching me to shoot, drilling into me that sentiment was weakness. That caring about someone meant giving them power over you.

Tank had texted before I arrived at the courthouse, saying that Lark and her grandmother had made it safely to the coffee shop, protected by a full security detail. Still, being here instead of there felt wrong. The message included a photo of the security setup—carefully positioned vehicles, sight lines covered. It was good work, professional. But it wasn’t me there, watching over them.

“All rise.” The bailiff’s voice pulled me from my thoughts. “This Court, with the Honorable Judge Paul Hellerstein presiding, is now in session. Please be seated and come to order.”

Vincent entered in an orange jumpsuit, hands cuffed in front of him, the shackles on his legs making it hard for him to walk with his usual confident gait. My brother had always understood the power of appearances. Even now, headed for what would likely be a life sentence, he carried himself like a CEO rather than a criminal defendant. His dark eyes, so like my own, met mine with cold amusement.

“Good to see you, little brother.” His voice was pitched low, meant only for me, as he passed. “Heard you’ve been spending time in Gloversville. Interesting choice.”

My jaw clenched. The casual mention of the town confirmed my fears—somehow, people still managed to report to him, meaning he could also issue commands. The fucker. I thought of Lark’s prideful courage yesterday, of her fierce determination to keep her shop open despite the threats. Vincent had always been good at identifying leverage points.

Before I could respond, Marco Romano—one of the best criminal defense attorneys money could buy—touched his arm, guiding him to their table. I recognized the lawyer’s type from countless “business meetings” where Vincent had entertained men like him, along with judges and politicians. All perfectly groomed, perfectly corrupt.

I watched as both men took their seats, waiting for the moment Vincent realized the original judge in the case wasn’t the one sitting on the bench. Nathan Vargas had been replaced an hour before the trial began when the prosecutor, Rachel McKinney, made a motion to have him removed based on evidence proving he’d been paid off by none other than my brother.

Like me, she was anticipating Vincent’s reaction. When he turned to Romano and whispered something, the prosecutor approached the podium with the measured confidence of someone who’d never lost a major case. Her tailored charcoal suit and silver hair that was pulled back in a no-nonsense bun spoke of decades in courtrooms, while the sharp intelligence in her green eyes reminded me of the few people who’d ever seen through Vincent’s facade. We’d spent months preparing for this moment, reviewing evidence, and rehearsing questions. But nothing could have prepared me for the weight of Vincent’s stare as I was sworn in.

“Please state your name for the record.”

“Alessandro Bianchi Castellano.”

“And your relationship to the defendant?”

“He’s my brother.”

A memory of Vincent teaching me to tie a tie before my first communion flashed in my mind. “Family is everything,” he’d said. “Remember that, Alessandro.” The same words he’d use years later to justify murder, extortion, and corruption.

“Mr. Castellano, can you tell the court about your role in your family’s organization?” McKinney continued, her voice carrying the quiet authority that had made her legendary in federal prosecution circles.

I leaned forward slightly, keeping my voice steady. “Officially, I served as enforcer and chief of security. In reality, I was working undercover for the Department of Justice to expose corruption and illegal activities.”

“How long did you maintain this cover?”

“Seven years, four months, and thirteen days.”

Vincent’s laugh was barely audible, but I caught it. The same dismissive sound he’d made when I asked about our mother’s whereabouts. The memory strengthened my resolve. For years, I’d watched him destroy lives, telling myself I had to maintain my cover, had to see the bigger picture. But with each passing day, the cost had grown.

As McKinney led me through the evidence—recordings, financial records, witness statements—I noticed movement at the back of the courtroom. A man I didn’t recognize slipped into the gallery, his attention fixed not on the proceedings but on his phone. How he held himself, slightly angled toward the exits, set off warning bells. Another one entered moments later, taking up position on the opposite side of the doors.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Despite protocols, I’d insisted on keeping it on silent in case of emergency. The court officers had agreed, given the ongoing security concerns. When McKinney paused to consult her notes, I glanced down quickly.

Black sedan outside coffee shop again. Looks like same vehicle with different plates. Team tracking.

I forced myself to focus on McKinney’s next question, even as my mind raced through contingencies. The timing wasn’t coincidental. Vincent’s subtle smile told me he knew exactly what was happening. This was his game—dividing my attention, making me choose between the testimony that could put him away and protecting those I cared about.

“Mr. Castellano,” McKinney continued, her tone sharpening with the gravity of what was to come. “Please tell the court about the events of March fifteenth, particularly regarding the murder of Jessica McNamara.”

My throat tightened. Another innocent caught in Vincent’s web. “My brother ordered her execution after learning she’d discovered evidence of judicial bribes.”

“Objection, speculation,” Vincent’s lawyer called out.

“Overruled. Continue, Mr. Castellano,” said the judge.

I detailed the sequence of events, each word driving home how many lives my brother had destroyed. Jessica had been a paralegal, working late one night when she stumbled across documents that implicated several justices with Vincent. She’d tried to do the right thing, going to her supervisor. Three days later, her body was found in the East River.

“And how did you learn of the defendant’s death?”

“I was present both when he ordered the hit and again when he received word it had been a success.” The memory was crystal clear—Vincent’s office overlooking Central Park and the casual way he’d mentioned having “taken care of the problem” while selecting a tie for dinner. “He said it would serve as a message to others.”

Throughout my testimony, my brother maintained that amused expression, as though this were all an elaborate game. But when McKinney mentioned the encrypted files we’d recovered—the ones that would expose his entire network—something shifted in his eyes. A coldness I recognized from countless “negotiations” that had ended badly for the other party.

“Perhaps we should discuss more recent events,” he said loudly, cutting off his lawyer’s attempt to silence him. “Like your new friend in Gloversville. Lovely girl. Such striking blonde hair. What was her name again? Lark?”

The judge’s gavel cracked sharply. “Mr. Romano, control your client.”

But Vincent had achieved his goal. The threat was clear—he could reach anyone, anywhere. Even from behind bars, his influence extended far beyond these courthouse walls. Again, I thought of everything her family had already lost because of mine.

My phone buzzed again. Two more vehicles arrived. Team mobilizing.

I met Vincent’s gaze steadily, refusing to show the fear clawing at my chest. He might think he still held all the cards, but he’d forgotten one crucial detail—I’d learned deception at his knee. And this time, I wasn’t the only one with something to protect.

“Mr. Castellano,” McKinney pressed on. “Please describe the structure of the organization’s financial operations.”

For the next hour, I laid out the complex web of shell companies, offshore accounts, and legitimate businesses used to launder money. Each detail was another nail in Vincent’s coffin, but I could feel him watching, calculating. The man had taught me chess when I was six, explaining that the key was thinking three moves ahead.

During a brief recess, after the two guys who’d raised my hackles earlier left, I stepped into the hallway and called Tank.

“Status?”

“Three more vehicles now,” he reported. “Professional surveillance setup. They’re good—keeping their distance, rotating positions. This feels coordinated. Too sophisticated for local muscle.”

“Because it is. Vincent’s sending a message.” I glanced through the courthouse windows, studying the street below. “He wants me to know his reach of power hasn’t changed.”

“While you’re stuck in court.”

“Exactly.” I caught movement in my peripheral vision—one of the men from the gallery, watching me. “Keep me updated. And, Tank? Don’t let Lark take any unnecessary risks.”

“Copy that. Though between you and me, that woman’s as stubborn as?—”

“Her grandmother?” I finished, remembering how Mrs. Gregory had faced me down in her kitchen.

Tank’s chuckle was cut short by a commotion in the background. “Gotta go.”

The call ended, leaving me with a knot in my gut. Vincent had always excelled at psychological warfare. This was just the opening move—letting me know he had things in play, making me imagine worst-case scenarios. The real strike would come later, when he thought I was off-balance.

Back in the courtroom, McKinney moved on to the evidence of FBI corruption. I described meetings in private clubs, the envelopes of cash passed in parking garages, and the careful grooming of ambitious young agents who might someday rise in the hierarchy of the organization. Through it all, Vincent maintained his pleasant smile, but his eyes had gone cold.

“Tell us about Judge Martinez,” McKinney said, referring to one of the most damaging parts of our case.

Vincent’s lawyer immediately objected. “Your Honor, this line of questioning?—”

“Speaks directly to the RICO charges,” McKinney countered. “Judge Martinez’s murder is central to establishing the pattern of corruption and violence.”

The judge nodded. “Overruled. Continue, Ms. McKinney.”

I took a deep breath, remembering that night. “Judge Martinez had been in the organization’s pocket for years. But when his daughter got sick and needed expensive experimental treatment, he started having second thoughts. He approached me, knowing my role in security, asking for help getting out.”

“And what happened?”

“I arranged a meeting with the DOJ and got him into witness protection. But someone inside the program was compromised.” My voice hardened. “The judge and his entire family were killed in what was made to look like a home invasion.”

Vincent’s smile widened fractionally. Another lesson he’d taught me—making examples of those who betrayed the family. I thought of the threatening letters Lark had received and the flooding of her shop. History repeating itself in new ways.

“The defendant’s own brother,” Vincent’s lawyer said during cross-examination, his tone dripping with theatrical dismay. “Working against his family, betraying sacred trust. One might question the character of someone capable of such deception.”

“Objection,” McKinney called. “Argumentative.”

“Sustained.”

But Vincent’s lawyer pressed on. “How do we know you’re not still playing a role, Mr. Castellano? Still working both sides?”

“Because unlike my brother, I chose to stand against corruption and murder.” I met Vincent’s eyes. “Some loyalties run deeper than blood.”

The hours dragged on, a careful dance of questions and answers. I kept my responses measured, professional, even as, in the back of my mind, whatever was happening in Gloversville worried me in a profound way.

During the next recess, I found McKinney in the conference room, surrounded by case files.

“Vincent’s got muscle in Gloversville,” I blurted.

She looked up sharply. “The Gregory family? We can arrange witness protection?—”

“They won’t go for it. And my brother knows that.” I ran a hand through my hair. “He’s using them to distract me, throw me off balance during testimony.”

“Then, don’t let him.” Her voice was firm. “The evidence is solid. Your testimony is crucial, but not the only thing that will put him away. Trust your team to handle things there.”

She was right, of course. But all I could think about was Lark’s kiss on my cheek, her whispered, “be safe,” and how she’d looked at me in the coffee shop, wanting to trust but afraid to.

The afternoon session began with further financial testimony. Vincent sat perfectly still, but I could feel his attention shift every time his lawyer received a text—no doubt with updates from Gloversville.

“Mr. Castellano, is there anything else you’d like to tell the court?” McKinney asked.

I looked at my brother—really looked at him—seeing not the polished businessman in an expensive suit who ran a powerful criminal organization, but the boy who’d taught me to ride a bike, throw a punch, and survive in our father’s harsh world. The man who’d twisted those lessons into weapons, using family loyalty to justify destruction.

“The violence, the corruption, the lives destroyed—all of it was a choice. And we all have to live with the choices we make,” I said quietly.

Vincent’s mask slipped for just a moment, showing something dark and dangerous beneath. The question was, how many moves ahead had he planned? And more importantly, would I be able to stay one step in front of him while trapped in this courtroom?

“We’ll resume Monday morning at nine,” the judge announced, gaveling the session to a close shortly after three.

Vincent stood. “Give my regards to Barbara,” he said softly as officers led him past. “Such a charming woman.” Again, his message hit exactly where he’d wanted it to.

Neither of our eyes wavered as I watched him walk out, remembering all the times I’d seen that same satisfied expression—right before he destroyed someone’s world. But this time was different. This time, as long as I could keep my wits about me, I could anticipate his next move. Then, I’d strike back.

My first two orders of business would be calling in every favor owed to me to make sure Vincent was moved to solitary confinement and that all of his assets were frozen. Both things should’ve already happened. However, now that Judge Hellerstein was presiding rather than the judge Vincent had paid off, I hoped they would soon.

I’d just walked out of the courtroom when my cell vibrated. I pulled it out and saw it was a call instead of a text from Tank.

“What’s up?” I asked.

“We received another message.”