Chapter 57 – Vincenzo
The worst part was not knowing. Days spent in ignorance.
My public defender was corrupt, and the fucker didn’t allow me contact with the outside world.
When Don Morelli didn’t send the famiglia’s attorney, I knew that our efforts were futile.
They would shove this sham case into the books, make quick work of locking me up, and then… .
And then….
I couldn’t breathe.
For two days, I sat on the edge of my bunk, staring at the wall. Prison would drive me mad. But knowing that she was out there, that my flower was in trouble, that would destroy me.
The day of the trial was a blur. The suit was tight, buttons straining against my chest, the slacks barely buttoning. And the tie? I choked.
“All rise. The court is now in session, the Honorable Jeffery Stegen presiding.”
Those sentences were a death knell.
“Please sit,” the judge intoned.
I collapsed, my legs unable to hold me.
A creeping, crawling prickled over my skin. I sensed an enemy, but a look around the packed courtroom, beyond the wooden barrier, didn’t reveal the threat.
The clerk announced the parties. “This is the matter of the State of Massachusetts versus Messina, your Honor.”
“Attempted murder, first degree,” the judge mused. “Mr. Pederson, the floor is yours.”
I tuned out the state attorney’s opening remarks. When my public defendant rose and began stuttering, I debated wringing his neck. What was one more charge?
From far away, hinges creaked.
Voices in the courtroom rose in a murmur.
“Order!” Jude Stegen banged his gavel.
“My apologies, your honor,” a crystal clear voice rang out.
My spine snapped straight. I swung around in my seat, making the guards jump. There she was, striding across the floor in a slick, black suit, golden blonde hair pulled back on the crown of her head, blue gaze piercing the room.
An avenging angel.
She’s alive.
It took too many seconds, but I caught a shadow move behind her. Volatile and ruthless. The spike of adrenaline only dampened when recognition clicked into place.
Liam gave me a short nod before dropping down onto an empty bench.
Amanda pushed through the barrier. “Amanda Messina representing Mr. Messina.”
“This is unnecessary!” the public defendant shouted, eyes wide and searching the crowd.
“Sidebar. Now,” Judge Stegen barked.
Amanda didn’t spare me a glance, marching straight to the judge. She handed the clerk a paper, then clasped her hands in front of her body. The public defendant and the prosecuting attorney both talked over one another, but Amanda held her ground, chin tipped up.
“If this is true….” I heard the judge mutter.
“It is, your honor.” Amanda dipped her chin once. “His rights have been violated, and we intend to sue."
"I'll allow it. Proceed, Miss Messina.”
“It’s Misses, sir,” Amanda dared to correct him. Turning to the weasel, she snapped, “You’re dismissed, Larsen.”
The public defender fidgeted, protesting in a high-pitched squeal.
“Bailiff, remove this attorney,” Stegen snapped. “Mrs. Messina, don’t waste my time. The floor is yours.”
“Thank you, your honor.” Amanda turned to face the jury.
“Ladies and gentlemen, over the course of this trial, you will hear a great deal about what happened on the night in question. The prosecution will tell you a story—a story built on assumptions about what my client meant to do. But intention is not something we guess at. It is something that must be proven. And the evidence in this case will show that the State cannot prove—beyond a reasonable doubt—that the defendant intended to kill anyone.”
Amanda gestured to me, but her gaze remained fixed on the crowd.
Show me your eyes, fiore. I needed to see. I needed to know. Only in those blue orbs could I see the truth.
I clenched my jaw tight, body vibrating with new energy. Every muscle strained not to go to her. But I was chained in the box. There were only a few feet spared me.
Amanda let out a short laugh, lips turning in a smile. Dio! She was beautiful! Such a show. They would be eating out of her hand.
“Ladies and gentlemen, let me tell you what you can anticipate. You will hear that the situation was chaotic, fast, emotional, and frightening. You will hear testimony showing that my client acted in panic, not purpose. You will hear that there was confusion, fear, and split-second reactions—but no plan, no motive, and no deliberate choice to take a life.”
Let me see you.
Amanda moved with ease to the benches of jurors. “The law requires intent.” She lifted her fingers to count. “Not speculation. Not assumptions. Not ‘maybe.’”
The jurors watched her with rapt interest. Many nodded along.
“At the end of this trial,” Amanda continued with a strong note of conviction, “when you’ve heard all the evidence, you will see that what happened might have been a tragedy—but not a crime of intent. Not an act of malice. Not attempted murder.”
Amanda swept her arm to the prosecution. “After all, there was no gun. You’ve failed to produce that in the sham of disclosure.”
The state representative squirmed.
Amanda’s smile was vicious. “And, ladies and gentlemen, when you see that lack of intent clearly in the evidence, you will find my client not guilty.” Turning to the judge, Amanda dipped her chin. “That is all for now, your honor.”
“The state would like to call their first witness,” the prosecutor declared.
Amanda came to the desk beside where I was restrained in my booth.
I gritted out her name, but she didn’t look up. Didn’t acknowledge me.
She shuffled through the papers on the desk, lip wrinkling in disgust. Unclasping her briefcase, which she must have deposited there when she first strode past the wooden gate, she pulled out a stack. Tapping them on the surface, she turned her attention to the line of questioning.
Her gaze was locked. Focused.
The state prosecutor steered the witness to make a grand speech, tailoring the questions to my character. He painted the vibrant picture of a criminal out on the warpath, ready to end a foreigner, visiting the country, because I was a cold blooded killer.
I swept a look at Amanda, daring to hiss at her again.
Oh, shit. Those fingers. Those beautiful, strong hands. There was the smallest shake in them.
Amanda was nervous.
I sat back in my seat. Pestering her was a mistake.
Please look at me, fiore. I wanted her to know whatever happened, it would be okay. She was here. That was enough.
Amanda didn’t even flick a look in my direction.
“If the state has no more questions, the witness is yours, Mrs. Messina.”
The smallest shiver raced down her spine. Amanda’s tongue darted out to wet her lips. I zeroed in on the movement, feeling my groin stir, but there was no room in the small slacks.
After studying the officer for a moment, Amanda asked in a pleasant, conversational voice, “Officer, you testified that dispatch labeled the incident as an attempted murder, correct?”
The response was a grunt. “Yes.”
Amanda took one poised step forward. “And in your career, how many attempted murder cases have you actually responded to?”
The cop glared at her.
“Answer the question,” the judge growled.
“None.” The cop shot a look into the courtroom, then pinned his hate-filled gaze on my wife.
I memorized his face. If there was a chance in hell, he was going to pay for looking at her like this.
But this was her scene. Amanda was in control here. The only way to help her was keep my expression neutral and my lips sealed.
Amanda took another step forward. “Let’s talk about the moment you arrived. My client, Mr. Messina, was he armed?”
“No,” came the strangled response.
“No firearm?” Amanda insisted.
“No.”
Amanda canted her head, studying him. The pause let the moment sink into the minds of the court. “No knife?”
The question was soft, forcing everyone to strain to catch it.
“No blunt object? No improvised weapon of any kind?”
Each question was raised with the volume of her voice. The effect was magnetic. The jurors shot each other glances, picturing the scene in their minds.
They might have just heard the deliberate rhetoric from the state, which painted me in the light of a bloodthirsty criminal.
But the truth was painfully obvious as Amanda presented facts.
The officer knew he was caught. “None. There was no weapon.”
Amanda hummed. “And you didn’t recover a weapon anywhere near him?”
“No,” the officer huffed.
Amanda’s voice sweetened. “Officer, in your report, how do you describe my client’s behavior when you found him?”
“I reported he was ‘startled and confused.’” The words were packed with anger.
It painted him in a bad light, especially when Amanda seemed so damn professional.
She’s winning the jurors.
She was going to do it!
“Not aggressive. Not violent. Not attempting to flee?” Amanda pressed, a smile playing on her lips.
“No.”
“You also wrote that my client said, quote, ‘I don’t know what happened. Someone told me to be here.’ Correct?” Amanda nodded to the clerk, who returned the nod.
I most definitely had not said that. But when the officer agreed, I didn’t correct him.
“Yes. That was his statement,” the officer grumbled.
The prosecutor leapt to his feet. “Objection, Your Honor. Hearsay.”
Amanda gave the attorney a confused look, faking every drop of it. “Goes to the defendant’s state of mind and spontaneous utterance. It’s admissible.”
“Overruled,” the judge decided. “The statement stands.”
Giving the judge a smile, Amanda turned back to the witness. “Officer, did you investigate who told my client to be at that location?”
“No.” He was in hot water, and he knew it.
“You had a man with no weapon, visibly confused — and you didn’t investigate why he was there?” Amanda insisted.
“He has a history of violence, your honor,” the prosecutor objected.
“Yes, we heard you the first time,” the judge sniped. “Continue, Mrs. Messina.”
“I repeat the question. You didn’t investigate why my client was there?” Amanda drilled.
The officer looked around for help. “I didn’t.”