On the third day of the trial, the air in the courtroom was thick with anticipation. Antonio Greco, the man whose testimony could seal Dante's fate, took the stand again, his face pale and sweating under the harsh fluorescent lights. Dante sat at the defense table, a study in controlled fury. In his suit pocket, he clutched the new photos of Sophia that Isabella had brought him that morning. Our daughter was two days old, and these small, glossy squares of paper were his only connection to her.
"Mr. Greco, let's continue," David Chen began, his voice deceptively calm. He walked Antonio back to his testimony about the alleged hit on Marco Santini in October 2019. "The date you claim Mr. Russo ordered this hit," Chen said, pulling out a stack of documents, "was October 15th. Can you tell the court where Mr. Russo was on that date?"
Antonio shifted in his seat. "I… I don't remember exactly."
"Allow me to refresh your memory," Chen said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "He was in Milan. For a week. On a documented business trip." He presented the evidence to the jury—passport stamps, hotel receipts, signed meeting minutes. "How, Mr. Greco, could my client have ordered this hit in person, as you testified, when he was on another continent?"
"He could have called," Antonio stammered, his story already beginning to unravel.
"Did he call?" Chen pressed.
"I… I don't recall."
Chen moved on, systematically dismantling Antonio's testimony. He pointed out glaring inconsistencies, dates that didn't align, people who were verifiably elsewhere. Antonio grew flustered, his answers becoming vague and contradictory. "I might have gotten some of the dates confused," he mumbled.
"Confused, Mr. Greco?" Chen's voice was sharp as a razor. "Or lying?"
"Objection!" the prosecutor, Amanda Pierce, called out.
"Sustained," the judge said. "Rephrase, Mr. Chen."
"Mr. Greco, are you certain of *any* of your testimony?" Chen asked, his eyes boring into the witness.
"The general facts are true," Antonio insisted weakly.
"Ah, the general facts," Chen mused. "But not the specific ones. Not the ones that actually matter." He then turned his attention to the immunity deal. "Let's be clear for the jury, Mr. Greco. You were facing the exact same charges as Mr. Russo—charges that carry a sentence of thirty years to life. But you're not going to prison, are you? You're getting complete immunity. Zero prison time. And all you had to do was deliver Dante Russo to the prosecution."
"I'm telling the truth!" Antonio blurted out, sweat beading on his forehead.
"You're telling whatever version of the truth keeps you out of a cage," Chen shot back. "You're trading my client's freedom for your own. Isn't that the truth, Mr. Greco?" Antonio was silent. Chen let the silence hang in the air for a long, damning moment before turning to the judge. "No further questions, Your Honor."
Dante leaned forward, whispering to Chen, "Did it work?"
"We damaged him," Chen whispered back. "But I don't know if it was enough to erase all of his testimony."
Amanda Pierce stood. "Your Honor, the People rest." The words landed with a thud in the silent courtroom. Their case was done. Now, it was our turn.
"The defense calls Isabella Russo to the stand," Chen announced.
Isabella, nervous but resolute, told the jury about the brother who had raised her, who had protected her from their abusive father, who had put her through medical school. "He is the best man I know," she said, her voice thick with emotion. "Selfless, protective, and loving. He is not the monster they are portraying him to be."
Pierce's cross-examination was brutal. "But you know what he does for a living, don't you, Ms. Russo? He's a criminal."
"He's my brother," Isabella said firmly. "And he's a good man."
Next, Chen called Father Thomas. The elderly priest spoke of the boy he had known, the man who was trying to be better than his father, to honor the memory of his mother. He looked directly at the jury, his eyes filled with a gentle compassion. "Two days ago, this man's daughter was born. He couldn't be there. He couldn't hold her. That, ladies and gentlemen, is a punishment I wouldn't wish on any man. Don't take the rest of his life away from him, too." His words were so genuine, so heartfelt, that I saw a few of the jurors wipe tears from their eyes.
During the lunch recess, I arrived at the courthouse. I had been discharged from the hospital that morning, weak and exhausted, but I was determined to be there. The media swarmed me, a chaotic mob shouting questions about the baby, about Dante's guilt. Marco and the security team formed a protective phalanx around me, guiding me through the madness. When Dante was brought back into the courtroom, he saw me in the front row, and the look of profound relief that washed over his face gave me the strength I needed.
During the break, they allowed us a supervised visit in a small consultation room, the cruel pane of glass still separating us. "You should be resting," he said, his voice raspy over the phone.
"I needed to be here," I replied. I held my phone up to the glass, showing him the live feed from the NICU camera. Sophia was sleeping in her incubator, a tiny, perfect miracle.
His hand came up to the glass, his fingers tracing the outline of her small form. "She's grown already," he whispered.
"One ounce," I said, my voice catching. "She's a fighter. Like her dad."
The afternoon session began with Marco on the stand, testifying to Dante's character, his loyalty, his fairness. Chen then called a series of character witnesses—legitimate business partners, employees, people from the community Dante had quietly helped over the years. A picture began to emerge of a complex, flawed man, but not the one-dimensional monster the prosecution had painted.
Then, in a move that sent a ripple of shock through the courtroom, Chen announced, "The defense calls Dante Russo to the stand."
It was a massive risk, but one we had decided was necessary. The jury needed to hear from him, to look him in the eye and decide for themselves if he was a liar. He walked to the stand, his posture erect, his face a mask of calm composure.
"Mr. Russo, are you guilty of these charges?" Chen began.
"No," Dante said, his voice clear and firm, his eyes on the jury. "I am not."
He denied ordering the hit on Santini, explaining he was in Milan. He admitted that his businesses operated in some "gray areas," but denied running a criminal enterprise.
"Why should this jury believe you over Mr. Greco?" Chen asked.
"Because I'm not getting a deal for my testimony," Dante said, his voice ringing with conviction. "I'm risking everything by being here. Antonio is saving himself. I'm fighting for my family."
"Your daughter was born two days ago," Chen said gently.
Dante's voice cracked slightly. "Yes."
"And you missed it."
"I heard her first cry over a jail phone," he said, his voice thick with emotion. "But I haven't held her. I haven't even seen her in person." He looked directly at the jury, his soul bare. "That's what this trial has already cost me. Please, don't take the rest of her childhood from me, too."
I was openly crying in the gallery. I saw a woman on the jury dabbing at her eyes with a tissue.
Pierce's cross-examination was as ruthless as I had expected. "Mr. Russo, you love your daughter, don't you?"
"More than my own life," he said.
"And you would do anything for her? Even lie under oath?"
"I'm not lying."
"But you would," she pressed. "You've built your life on secrets and violence. And now you want this jury to believe you're just an innocent, misunderstood businessman?"
"I want this jury to judge me on the evidence, not on your assumptions," Dante said, his voice dangerously quiet.
"The evidence shows you're a criminal."
"The evidence shows that Antonio Greco is a liar who is saving his own skin by destroying my life."
The day ended with the judge announcing that closing arguments would be heard the next morning, after which the case would be handed over to the jury. Tomorrow. The word hung in the air, heavy with dread and a sliver of hope. As they led Dante away, he looked back at me. I held up my phone, Sophia's image bright on the screen. He nodded, a silent promise. He was fighting for her. *I love you,* he mouthed. *I love you, too,* I mouthed back.
That evening, I was back in the NICU, holding Sophia against my chest. Her tiny body was so warm, so real. "Your daddy testified today," I whispered to her. "He told everyone how much he loves you." Her tiny hand curled around my finger, and I held on tight. "Tomorrow, they decide our fate, baby girl. I don't know what will happen. But I know we'll survive. You, me, and your daddy. Somehow."
My phone buzzed with a text from Chen. *Closing arguments at 9 AM. Then it's in the jury's hands. We could have a verdict as early as tomorrow afternoon.*
Tomorrow. By this time tomorrow, we would know. Everything or nothing. Freedom or decades of waiting. I kissed Sophia's forehead, her skin as soft as velvet, and whispered the only prayer I had left. "Please. Let him come home."