Chapter 28
Chapter Twenty-Eight
“ M r. Bonanno, would you say you live in a safe neighborhood?” Cassie’s leaning casually against the platform I’m behind. The question catches me off guard just enough to loosen my shoulders. I raise a brow at her, silently asking what she’s up to.
“Is anywhere in the city safe?”
She smirks—just a flicker, but I catch it. She’s onto something.
“Would it be safe to assume you have security surveillance on your property?”
I nod. “Yes.”
She leans in, voice smooth. “So if we asked for footage from that night, could you prove your car never left your residence?”
Before I can say anything, Daniels jumps in with, “Objection, leading the witness,” throwing his hands up like he’s exasperated.
Judge Michaelson waves him off. “Overruled.”
She turns back to me, tapping her fingers lightly on the table.
Her eyes lock onto mine with sharp, steady focus, sharp enough to cut through any doubt.
There’s a quiet confidence in the way she holds herself, calm but unyielding, like she already knows the truth and is just waiting for me to catch up.
Her lips press into a thin line, betraying nothing but determination.
The soft light catches the subtle curve of her jaw and the hint of a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth—like she’s both challenging me and silently rooting for me at once.
I can feel the weight of her gaze, steady and unwavering, as if she’s already in my corner, ready to fight for me. “What car do you drive, Mr. Bonanno?”
I smirk, raising a brow. “Black Mercedes AMG.”
She presses on. “New?”
“Always.”
“Satellite navigation?”
Daniels shoots out, “Objection! Irrelevant.”
She doesn’t miss a beat, eyes wide and sharp as she turns to face him. “Oh, it’s extremely relevant.”
Michaelson agrees with a nod. “Overruled.”
I watch her carefully, knowing she’s steering this exactly where it needs to go. And I’m ready for whatever comes next.
“Your honor, members of the jury,” she begins, her voice steady and sharp.
“Cars with navigation systems keep a record of recent locations. The police have already checked the vehicle before this so-called ‘new’ evidence appeared. I’d like to question where exactly this ‘new evidence’ came from.
There are no witnesses placing Mr. Bonanno anywhere else that night.
The car’s GPS history confirms it wasn’t used, and for all we know, that image just shows a car parked outside somewhere in the city. ”
Michaelson narrows his eyes over his glasses, shooting a warning glare at Daniels. He’s caught. There’s no doubt about it.
Daniels snaps, “We still have the murder weapon.”
She spins back to me, that smug smile playing on her lips—slow, knowing, and just a little wicked.
It’s the kind of smile that says she’s already one step ahead, like she’s enjoying the game more than she should.
There’s a spark of mischief in her eyes that makes it impossible not to notice, and it curls the corners of her mouth just enough to be both confident and teasing, daring me to keep up. “Mr. Bonanno, do you own a gun?”
Of course I do . “Yes.”
“Can you describe it for the court?”
She’s already rifling through the photos, pulling out the one labeled as the ‘murder weapon’ just as I answer.
“Glock 19.”
She steps up to the stand, holding the photo out steadily. “Can you identify the gun in this image?” Her voice is calm, but there’s a sharp edge beneath it—like she’s warning me not to slip up.
I glance at the picture for just a moment before handing it back. “That’s a Beretta. A92,” I say plainly.
She presses. “You can tell just from the picture?”
I meet her gaze without hesitation. “Yes.” I point to the gun in the photo. “That’s not mine.”
“You’re certain of that?”
I nod firmly, then reach for my own weapon and set it deliberately on the table. The courtroom shifts; a collective gasp ripples through the room. “If I was going to kill anyone, I wouldn’t use a registered weapon.”
Cassie bites down on her lip, a flicker of frustration mixed with pride crossing her face. Slowly, I withdraw my gun and slide it back into its holster. Probably a bad move on my part—but no one stops me. No one says a word.
She leans in slightly, offering a look that’s almost encouraging. “Can you tell me anything else that proves this isn’t your gun?”
This is my moment, the chance to anchor my innocence, to close the gap of doubt hanging over me.
I point back to the photo. “This gun,” I say, “the recoil isn’t as smooth. It pinches.”
“Pinches?” Her eyebrows draw together, puzzled.
I nod, eyes steady. “Yeah. When it cocks back, it can pinch the skin. Sometimes it even cuts. That’s why I don’t use one like this.”
The room falls silent, and I see the jury lean in a little closer, caught between my words and the image in front of them.
“May I see your hands?”
I slide my calloused palms against hers. The static that sparks between us hits me like a jolt—something I don’t think I’ll ever get used to. Her touch is electric, and I can feel the raw, unfiltered pull between us.
She looks down at my hands. “Could the jury please note there are no wounds or scars on Mr. Bonanno’s hands? Any such injuries would be recorded in the reports as identifiable features.”
I meet her eyes, a silent thank you passing between us as she turns to Michaelson.
“Defense rests.”
The rest of the trial feels like a blur. I keep my cool while Daniels writhes, desperate to provoke me. When the court adjourns, Daniels sits across the room, looking far less confident than when he first walked in.
I almost feel sorry for him.
Until he winks at her.
I grit my teeth and look away.
She squeezes my hand beside me, and for the first time since this nightmare began, I see the nerves flicker in her eyes. But I know she’s confident we’ve got this. The only trick Daniels has left is bribing the jury, and only time will tell if he’s got the balls to go that far.
“What’s the matter? Afraid you’re going to lose?” Daniels sneers across the room.
I catch the edge in his voice and fire back, matching his tone. “I hardly call it winning when you’re falsifying evidence.”
He nods toward me like I’m some dangerous criminal. “That man needs to be behind bars.”
My fists clenching the arms of my chair, muscles coiling, ready to snap. I’m about to move on Daniels, but then I feel her hand on mine. A gentle shake, steadying me.
Not now.
“According to who?” she scoffs, “you?”
Daniels waves me off with a lazy hand, muttering, “Worry about your own back, Caruthers.”
No originality there.
We sit in tense silence, breath held tight, as Michaelson returns to the bench. The jury is already seated, faces shadowed with impatience and frustration. I grip the table, knuckles turning white, doing my best to keep the rage bottled.
She’s seen this before—countless times. I can tell. Still, even she’s wary that Daniels might have one last card up his sleeve. But when we all settle, I catch it; the same tight expression mirrored on Daniels’ face.
Michaelson's eyes flick between us, then he exhales and turns to the jury.
“Do we have a verdict, Foreperson?”
A woman stands at the front. Her brown hair brushes her shoulders, partially hiding her face, but the frown creasing her brow is clear. Her gaze meets his, steady but heavy.
With a shaky hand, she begins, “The jury finds the defendant…”
I draw in a breath sharp enough to cut through the silence, the entire courtroom holding its collective breath.
“…not guilty.”
The room erupts into murmurs—whispers of disbelief and confusion spreading like wildfire. Behind me, the guys are slapping my shoulders, cheering in my ear. I exhale slowly, the weight lifting from my chest, but the tension remains.
I stay still, face stoic, while Cassie quietly packs up the documents on the table.
We’re not out of the woods yet. But for now, this battle is won.
I feel her stare before I even lift my head, like heat pressing against my skin, sharp and deliberate. When I finally meet her eyes, the world narrows to that one glance. No words pass between us, but they aren’t needed. It’s all there—pride, frustration, something deeper underneath.
I don’t know what I expected. Maybe for her to say something.
Or maybe she’s waiting for me to. Instead, it’s tension wrapped in silence.
I can still hear her voice from earlier, confident and cutting.
And beneath that, the question I’ve been avoiding since I woke up this morning: What the hell are we now?
She steps toward me, hand extended like this is any other moment. Like this is just routine. But this isn’t just a handshake, and we both know it.
I clasp her hand anyway. It's automatic. Expected. A performance for a room full of nobodies. Her grip is firm, polished, practiced. There's no warmth in it. No emotion. It feels transactional. Cold.
It shouldn’t feel like a goodbye, but it does.
When she pulls away, she turns without hesitation. She doesn’t look back. Doesn’t hesitate. And I just stand there, hand still tingling with the ghost of her touch and a tightness in my chest I wish I didn’t recognize.
And as I stand there in a room full of people and still feel completely alone, I realize something I never thought I would.
I might be a free man now. But I’ve never felt more locked out than I do when she lets go of my hand.