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T he courtroom was spacious, sleek, and modern, with a witness stand, jury box, and a wooden judge’s dais flanked by an American flag and the blue flag of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania.

The overhead lighting was harshly bright, and the air-conditioning so cold that Julia felt tense all the time, though it was more likely her state of mind.

Ciro Nardini was being tried for Mike’s murder, at the Juanita Kidd Stout Criminal Justice Center in Philadelphia, and the jury foreperson had just sent word they’d finished deliberating.

They’d reached a verdict, and court was about to reconvene.

Julia willed herself to stay calm, stiff in her tailored navy pantsuit and alone in the smooth wooden pew.

The two years of legal jockeying between Florence and Philadelphia were almost over, but she felt no relief.

Today mattered most to her, even though the Italian prosecution had ended in convictions across the board.

The coconspirators had turned on each other and pled guilty for lesser sentences.

Anna Mattia and Piero Fano implicated realtor Franco Patelli, who confessed to paying them to drug Julia, to gaslight her so she’d sell.

Anna Mattia claimed in a sworn statement that she’d never drugged Rossi, but Julia would never know the truth.

After all, she herself had signed a sworn statement that wasn’t exactly the truth.

She’d learned that not everything was knowable, whether for good or for ill.

The conspiracy plot in Italy started to unravel after Franco was arrested.

He implicated the kingpin Maksim Tsarovich, a double-dealing executive at the Romagna Group, who’d hatched the scheme behind Adamo Bucci’s back.

Tsarovich had known months in advance that his boss Bucci was looking for a property in Tuscany, so Tsarovich approached Franco, recruited him, and together they targeted Julia’s property while Rossi was dying, planning to buy it as a consortium to mask their true identities.

Tsarovich’s plan was then to flip Julia’s property, make a fortune on the resale to Bucci, and quit the Romagna Group.

It turned out that Ciro Nardini and Bernardo Vitali pointed the finger of guilt at Marshal Torti, who’d hired them to do the dirty work, and Torti turned in the two carabinieri who’d harassed Julia and Courtney.

Marshal Torti also implicated two public officials in Savernella government and one Tomasso Lino, aka Black Ballcap, who’d followed Julia at the Uffizi and driven the white van that forced Gianluca off the road.

All eleven coconspirators were currently serving various sentences in Italy, according to their crimes.

Julia wasn’t satisfied because the job was only half done. Nardini had to account for killing Mike, and she’d fought hard to get him extradited to the US for this trial. If he were convicted today, he’d serve his Pennsylvania sentence after the one in Italy. She hoped he’d be locked up forever.

The courtroom began to fill up as administrative personnel returned for the verdict.

The uniformed bailiffs resumed their posts next to the dais, then a female law clerk trundled in and sat down at her desk.

The court reporter bent her coiffed head over her steno machine.

Someone coughed, the sound breaking the silence and echoing in the cavernous space.

Julia was only one of a handful of people in the gallery.

She’d expected the proverbial packed courtroom she saw on Netflix, but that wasn’t real.

Sadly a homicide trial in a major American city wasn’t front-page news, but Mike would always be a headline to her.

Courtney had come to watch when Julia took the stand but couldn’t make it today.

Mike’s father had passed last year, and his mother had gone into memory care after an Alzheimer’s diagnosis.

Julia was the keeper of Mike’s memory now.

A female police officer entered through the side door, which led to the secured hallway where Nardini was in custody.

Julia struggled to stay composed. She went to Zoom therapy from time to time and had even seen Helen once or twice, but got too busy with the legal proceedings.

She felt as if the rest of her life was on hold, in suspended animation until after the verdict.

She assessed the chances of Nardini’s conviction, going back and forth in her mind.

She didn’t know whether the jury would find Nardini guilty, and the prosecutor said their chances were fifty-fifty.

Nardini hadn’t confessed in Italy to Mike’s murder and didn’t take the stand here, so the American prosecution stood on its own.

Julia had testified as the prosecution’s main witness, but she’d been impeached on cross because she hadn’t identified Nardini in her statement on the night of the murder and even stated that she couldn’t identify the killer.

The prosecution offered the traffic cam video, arguing that it showed Nardini killing Mike, but the defense countered that the image wasn’t clear enough.

The prosecutor had warned Julia as much, but she’d left the courtroom every time they showed the video.

It was the last thing she wanted to see, ever again.

Worst of all, the prosecution was dealt a blow when a cranky Judge McAfee excluded the evidence that Nardini was convicted of Julia’s attempted murder in Croce and his participation in the conspiracy there, deciding it would be too prejudicial.

It was a technical ruling that meant the Philly jury knew nothing about the Tuscan conspiracy.

Julia thought law was supposed to lead to justice, not thwart it, but she’d learned that the opposite could be true.

Today, Nardini might get away with murder.

The side door opened, and two Philly cops entered the courtroom, leading Nardini in a suit and tie, handcuffed and shackled.

Julia shuddered at the sight of him, mostly from righteous anger rather than residual terror.

He’d lost weight in prison, so he looked almost harmless, though he was anything but.

She knew he was a sadistic killer because she’d seen him kill Mike, and he’d tried to kill her.

She’d learned there was evil in the world, and sometimes it wore a tie.

The cops escorted Nardini to the defense counsel table, where he pointedly avoided Julia’s eye as they took off his handcuffs and leg shackles, then sat down.

They stood behind him as defense counsel Matt Ivrez strode in, a notoriously pricey criminal lawyer with a dark beard and shiny black manbun, who always wore a flashy suit.

In the next moment, the female prosecutor hustled up the aisle, flashing Julia a tense smile.

Her name was Valerie Nakata-Simons, and she was an attractive forty-something with a short haircut and a slight build in a no-nonsense black pantsuit that comported with her somber, dogged, and dedicated manner.

She’d been kind to Julia, though she’d avoided showy emotionality.

If they lost today, it wasn’t for lack of trying.

Another law clerk entered the courtroom through the front door near the dais, mounted the steps, and set some papers down. It meant that the judge would be out any minute, and Julia straightened in her seat, as the lead bailiff straightened, saying, “All rise for the Honorable William R. McAfee.”

Everybody stood up, including Julia, though she felt weak in the knees.

Judge McAfee was older, making a stooped figure as he swept berobed up the stairs of the dais to his black leather chair.

He was painfully thin with wizened white hair and wire-rimmed glasses that slid down his bony nose.

He hadn’t showed much personality during the trial, except that he was a stickler for any technical detail, though as far as Julia could tell, his rulings disadvantaged both the prosecution and the defense at times.

He had a reputation for fairness, but she wasn’t seeing a lot of heart.

She resented him for his evidentiary ruling against them, but now it was all up to the jury.

“You may sit down,” Judge McAfee said, nodding, and Julia did, turning expectantly to the side door behind the jury box as another bailiff entered and the jury began to file in behind him.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” Gianluca whispered, appearing at the end of the pew and making his way toward her.

His hair had grown back but he’d lost weight, looking undersized in his wool jacket and scarf.

He moved with difficulty, still in physical therapy after the motorcycle crash.

His rehabilitation had been slow and painful, requiring him to relearn walking as well as fine-motor skills like painting, which killed her.

“It’s okay. They’re just about to come back.”

“The jury was in the men’s room, so they wouldn’t let me in.”

“No worries,” Julia said, as Gianluca sat down, raking back his curls.

Psychologically his recovery had been hard on him, too, because he hadn’t been able to return to work yet.

He and his father were talking about helping her restore the villa if she chose to stay in Tuscany permanently, but Julia’s plans were up in the air.

She’d been with Gianluca every step of the way during his rehab, taking him to his various appointments and cheering him on, and he’d been with her every step of the way during these cases, meeting with the prosecutors and translating on the Italian side.

But they both knew that they hadn’t had a fair chance at a normal relationship.

In a way, they were in suspended animation, too.

Both turned to watch the jury come in, and Julia knew that Gianluca was feeling as tense as she was.

He took her hand, and held it, and she gave him a squeeze back but they didn’t exchange a word.

He’d been such a support during the trial, but he shared the prosecutor’s fear that the verdict could go either way.

Julia watched the jury shuffle into the box, twelve faces that she had come to know from watching them while testimony came in.

There were seven men and five women of all shapes, sizes, and races, and they’d been remarkably attentive during the trial.

But none of them made eye contact with her as they came in and sat down, which worried her.

The courthouse lore was that if the jury didn’t look at you when they entered, they were going against you.

Judge McAfee turned to the jury. “Madam Foreperson, have you reached a verdict?”

“We have, Your Honor,” she answered, her expression impassive. She held out a sheet of paper, which the bailiff accepted, walked to the dais, and handed it up to the judge.

Julia held her breath, trying to read his expression, but she couldn’t. Gianluca’s hand tightened around hers.

“Mr. Nardini, will you please stand and face the jury.” Judge McAfee handed the verdict back to the bailiff.

Nardini and his counsel stood up. So did Valerie, at counsel table.

The bailiff brought the verdict to the foreperson, who accepted it, read it, and stood tall, as if to shoulder responsibility for what she was about to say.

Julia held her breath, her heart pounding. Gianluca placed his other hand on top of hers, joining them as if they’d be stronger that way, better able to absorb the impact together.

The jury foreperson cleared her throat. “In the Common Pleas Court of the County of Philadelphia, in the Matter of the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania vs. Ciro Nardini , Case Number 25-9383. We, the jury, in the above-entitled action, find the Defendant Ciro Nardini guilty of the crime of murder in the first degree, upon the person of Michael Aaron Shallette, pursuant to 18 Pennsylvania Crimes Code Section 2502(1).”

Julia’s hand flew to her mouth. She wanted to shout for joy and relief. Gianluca gasped, putting an arm around her and hugging her close, and she could feel his body shudder, as if he was experiencing everything she was at the very same moment, sharing it with her completely.

Julia buried herself in his chest, feeling an overwhelming sense of gratitude that the jury had done the right thing, that Nardini would pay for his crime, that all the trials, proceedings, statements, and investigations were over, and that the horror that had begun on a cold October night, when her husband had been cut down before her very eyes, was finally ended, and every day of the struggle since then had been worth it, because it had all come down to this:

Justice.