Chapter 16 Matteo
EVENTUALLY, AFTER WHAT felt like an eternity, the trial began.
I sat at the defense table in federal court and tried to focus on what Diana Martinez was saying. Something about jury selection. About strategy. About how we'd handle the prosecution's opening statements.
But all I could think about was the fact that I might spend the rest of my life in prison.
The courtroom was packed. Media in the back rows, scribbling notes and taking photos when the judge wasn't looking.
Federal agents scattered throughout, their presence a reminder of who held the power here.
Prosecutors at their table, organized and confident, with boxes of evidence stacked behind them like a wall of inevitability.
And at our table: four defendants. Sandro. Elio. Luca. Me.
All of us facing life sentences.
All of us knowing the evidence against us was strong. Too strong.
Diana had done her best. She'd filed suppression motions on the surveillance evidence. She'd challenged the scope of the warrants. She'd questioned the credibility of witnesses. But the judge had denied most of our motions. The evidence was coming in. All of it.
Eight months of recordings from Vincent's wire. Financial records showing money laundering through shell companies. Witness testimony about violence and intimidation. The kind of evidence that buried people for life.
I looked back at the gallery.
Stefan sat in the front row. Right where I could see him. He met my eyes and nodded slightly. A reminder: I'm here. You're not alone in this.
The gesture made my chest tight.
Most people distanced themselves when someone was facing federal charges. Most people didn't want to be associated with defendants in a RICO case. Most people protected themselves.
Stefan moved closer.
He'd been coming to pretrial hearings for weeks. Sitting through tedious legal arguments. Watching prosecutors and defense attorneys argue about evidence and procedure. Never once suggesting he had somewhere better to be.
Just present. Steady. An anchor when everything else felt like it was spinning out of control.
The judge entered. We all stood.
"United States versus Vitale, DeLuca, Marino, and Romano," the judge said. "Are the parties ready to proceed?"
Romano. Luca's last name, not Stefan's family. But it still made something twist in my chest every time I heard it.
"The United States is ready, Your Honor," the lead prosecutor said. Her name was Catherine Walsh and she looked like she'd been waiting years for this moment.
"The defense is ready," Diana said.
The trial began.
The first week was opening statements and preliminary witnesses. Establishing the foundation of the case.
Walsh stood before the jury and painted us as a criminal enterprise. Detailed our operations. Our structure. The violence we used to maintain control. She didn't hold back.
"The evidence will show that these four men—" she gestured at our table, "—operated a sophisticated criminal organization for over a decade.
They laundered money through legitimate businesses.
They extorted payments from business owners.
They used violence and intimidation to enforce compliance.
This is not alleged criminal activity. This is proven criminal activity, backed by months of surveillance, recorded conversations, and witness testimony you'll hear over the course of this trial. "
Diana countered with reasonable doubt. With questions about the legality of the surveillance. With challenges to witness credibility. But her opening felt like throwing rocks at a mountain.
The evidence was overwhelming.
Every night I went home to Inferno and tried not to think about federal prison. About losing decades. About being separated from Stefan by concrete and steel and visiting schedules.
Stefan never asked how the trial was going. Never pushed for reassurance. Just made dinner or ordered takeout and sat with me while I pretended everything was fine.
Week two brought the real damage.
Vincent Paglia took the stand.
Our former accountant. The man who'd embezzled from us and then worn a wire for the FBI to avoid charges. The centerpiece of the prosecution's case.
He looked small and nervous on the witness stand. Nothing like the confident accountant I'd known for years. But his testimony was devastating.
Walsh walked him through it methodically.
How he'd started working for us. How he'd gradually learned about our operations.
How he'd realized we were laundering money through the restaurants and real estate holdings.
How the FBI had approached him about cooperation after discovering his embezzlement.
"And what did you agree to do for the FBI?" Walsh asked.
"I agreed to wear a recording device. To document conversations about the organization's criminal activities. To gather evidence for their investigation." Vincent's voice was quiet. "In exchange for immunity from prosecution for my embezzlement."
"And over how many months did you record these conversations?"
"Eight months. From January through August of last year."
"And during those eight months, did you record conversations with the defendants?"
"Yes. Many conversations."
Walsh pulled out transcripts. Dozens of them. She walked Vincent through conversation after conversation where we'd discussed operations. Money flows. Problems that needed handling.
Then she got to the violence.
"Mr. Paglia, did you ever witness the defendants use violence or the threat of violence to enforce compliance?"
"Yes. Multiple times."
"Can you describe one instance?"
Vincent looked at our table. His eyes found me. "In March, a restaurant owner named Tony Marconi refused to pay his protection money. Mr. DeLuca was sent to handle it. When he came back, he told Mr. Vitale that Marconi wouldn't be a problem anymore. That he'd learned his lesson."
"And what did Mr. DeLuca mean by that?"
"I later learned that Mr. DeLuca had broken Marconi's arm."
"Objection," Diana said immediately. "Hearsay. The witness didn't observe this directly."
"Sustained," the judge said.
But the damage was done. The jury had heard it.
Walsh moved on. "Mr. Paglia, can you identify the four defendants in this courtroom?"
Vincent pointed. "Mr. Vitale. Mr. DeLuca. Mr. Marino. Mr. Romano."
Each name felt like a nail in a coffin.
"And based on your eight months of recording conversations and observing their operations, can you describe the role each defendant played in this criminal enterprise?"
Diana objected. The judge overruled. Vincent described our roles in detail.
Sandro: the strategist. The money man. The one who made the decisions.
Elio: the planner. The one who handled security and logistics.
Luca: the face. The one who charmed clients and maintained legitimate fronts.
Me: the enforcer. The one who handled problems. The one who made sure people complied through fear and violence.
It was all true. Every word. I couldn't even pretend it was lies or exaggeration.
I looked back at Stefan. He was pale but his eyes were steady on mine.
Still here. Still present. Even hearing testimony about violence I'd committed. About people I'd hurt. About the criminal I actually was.
The cross-examination did some damage to Vincent's credibility. Diana hammered on his embezzlement. On the fact that he'd stolen from us for months before the FBI caught him. On his immunity deal and how it gave him every incentive to exaggerate or fabricate evidence.
But the recordings existed. The financial records existed. The evidence was real.
One witness with credibility problems couldn't erase eight months of documentation.
That night, I couldn't pretend anymore.
Stefan and I were in the apartment. He was making tea. I was sitting at the kitchen table staring at nothing.
"The defense is struggling," I said.
Stefan turned. Set down the kettle. "I know."
"The evidence is overwhelming. Vincent's testimony is damaging. The recordings corroborate everything he's saying. Diana's doing her best but—" I stopped. "I might actually be convicted, Stefan. Might spend the next twenty years in federal prison. Maybe longer."
"I know," he said again.
"Do you understand what that means?" I looked at him. "If I'm convicted, you're alone. No me to protect you. No daily presence. Just prison visits and letters and decades of waiting for something that might never happen."
"I understand."
"Then why are you still here?" My voice cracked. "Why are you sitting in that courtroom every day watching me get buried by evidence? Why haven't you left yet?"
"Because I love you." He crossed to me. Pulled out a chair and sat. "Because you're it for me. Because I made a choice to stay and I'm not backing out just because things got hard."
"This isn't hard, Stefan. This is catastrophic. If I'm convicted—"
"Then I'll visit every week. I'll write every day. I'll wait however long it takes." His voice was firm. "We've talked about this. You know what my answer is."
"I'm asking you to reconsider." I grabbed his hands. "You're twenty-three. You have your entire life ahead of you. You could—"
"Could what? Find someone else? Move on? Build a life without you?" Stefan's eyes were fierce. "I don't want that. I want you. Even if you're in prison. Even if it takes decades. Even if—"
"Stop." I pulled my hands away. Stood up. Started pacing. "You can't sacrifice your twenties and thirties visiting federal prison. You can't put your life on hold for me."
"I'm not putting my life on hold. I'm choosing where to invest it." Stefan stood too. "Matteo, what do you want me to say? That I'll leave? That I'll move on? That I'll find someone safer?"
"Yes. That's exactly what I want you to say."
"Well, I'm not saying it." He moved toward me. "Because it would be a lie. I'm not leaving. I'm not moving on. I'm staying right here. With you. For however long this takes."
"Even if it takes twenty years?"
"Even then."
"You're insane."