15. Gilly
Gilly
The first rule of defending a client is believing in their innocence.
But what if I don’t?
I press my fingers against my temples, forcing myself to focus on the scattered case files, crime scene reports, and forensic analysis spread across the desk.
A thick legal pad lies open in front of me, my handwriting a mess of theories and counterarguments.
The evidence against Matteo Marchesi is convincing, damning even.
And yet, something about it feels off.
I flip through the crime scene photos again, my pulse steady but my frustration growing.
Diego Rojas, a cartel associate, executed in a warehouse.
Matteo’s fingerprints found on the murder weapon.
Surveillance footage placing Matteo near the crime scene.
An anonymous tip leading the police straight to him.
Too clean. Too perfect.
A setup.
I just have to prove it.
The sound of approaching footsteps echoes through Luca’s study, but I don’t look up. I already know it’s him. His presence is suffocating even before he speaks.
“Don’t work too hard, Gilly.” His voice is smooth, laced with amusement. “I’d hate for you to burn out before the fun part.”
I finally glance up. Luca leans against the doorframe, watching me like I’m some fascinating puzzle. He’s effortlessly put together—black button-down, sleeves rolled up, a whiskey glass balanced in his hand.
I hate that he looks so at ease. Like none of this is life or death.
“I didn’t realize wrongful imprisonment was fun for you,” I say, turning back to my notes.
Luca chuckles. The sound is low, rich, unbothered. “Oh, it’s not the case that’s entertaining.” He tilts his head. “It’s you.”
I grip my pen harder. I refuse to give him the satisfaction of a reaction.
“I’ll get Matteo out,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Because the evidence is weak, and the police work is sloppy. Not because of you.”
Luca hums, stepping closer. The scent of smoke and expensive cologne surrounds me before he even reaches my desk.
“Sloppy?” He leans down slightly, his fingers grazing the edge of the case file. “Or deliberate?”
I meet his gaze. Cold. Amused. Testing.
“Renzo,” I murmur.
Luca smiles. It doesn’t reach his eyes. “Good girl.”
My pulse flutters against my will.
Damn him.
I sit back in my chair, exhaling slowly. “If Matteo is innocent, then why does he look so relaxed in every holding cell photo?”
His smirk deepens. “Why don’t you ask him yourself?”
Luca’s words linger long after he’s gone.
"Why don’t you ask him yourself?"
I hate that he’s right.
Matteo Marchesi is at the center of this case, yet I know almost nothing about him aside from what the prosecution wants me to believe. That he’s reckless. That he’s a killer. That he’s guilty.
But if I’m going to get him out of this, I need to see him with my own eyes.
---
The air inside the Miami Correctional Facility is stale, heavy with the scent of disinfectant and bad decisions. I walk through the dimly lit hallway, my heels echoing against the tile as I follow the guard.
At the end of the corridor, through a set of thick steel doors, Matteo is waiting.
The first thing I notice is his smirk.
It’s not cocky.
Not nervous.
It’s calculated.
Matteo Marchesi lounges in his seat like he’s not a man on trial for murder, but someone waiting for a dinner reservation. His dark brown eyes flick up to mine, amusement sparking there as if he already knows what I’m going to say.
Like he already knows the outcome of his trial.
I take my seat across from him, sliding my case file onto the table. The metal chair is cold beneath me, but my pulse is steady.
Matteo tilts his head. "So you're the famous Gilly Bellanti."
I lift an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware I had a reputation.”
His smirk deepens. "You do. It just depends on who you ask."
I don’t rise to the bait. Instead, I open my folder, scanning my notes. “Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t trust you.”
Matteo chuckles. “And yet, you’re my lawyer.”
“For now.”
He leans back, examining me the way a man sizes up a chessboard before making his next move.
"Then let’s make this easy, bella." He gestures toward the file. "I didn’t kill Rojas."
I keep my expression neutral. “That’s what they all say.”
"But unlike the others, I'm telling the truth."
I fold my arms. “Then explain the evidence. Your fingerprints were found on the gun.”
His smirk doesn’t waver. “My fingerprints were on a gun. Not the gun that killed him.”
I pause.
He knows.
He already knows the forensics don’t match.
I tap my fingers against the folder, considering him carefully. “Then why didn’t your previous lawyer bring that up?”
Matteo exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “Because my lawyer wasn’t supposed to win.”
A slow chill spreads down my spine.
I press my lips together, my mind racing. “You’re saying—”
“I’m saying,” he interrupts, voice dropping, “someone wanted me in here.”
And just like that, the entire case shifts.
Matteo wasn’t just arrested.
He was put here.
And whoever orchestrated it knew he wouldn’t walk away without a fight.
Matteo leans in, his smirk fading.
“You trust the wrong people, bella.”
Matteo’s words shouldn’t get under my skin, but they do.
Because he says them like he knows something I don’t.
I keep my expression carefully neutral, but my grip tightens around the pen in my hand. I shouldn’t let him rattle me.
“Who exactly am I trusting that I shouldn’t?” I ask.
Matteo doesn’t answer immediately. Instead, he studies me, his gaze slow and too knowing.
“You think this case is about me.” He leans forward, resting his cuffed wrists on the table. “But it’s about what happens when Luca loses.”
Luca.
Of course.
It always comes back to him.
I exhale slowly. “If someone wanted Luca to lose, why not go after him directly? Why frame you?”
Matteo smirks. “Because Luca doesn’t break. But me?” He lifts his hands, the cuffs clinking against each other. “I’m the weak spot. The liability. Or at least, that’s what they think.”
My pulse is steady, but my thoughts aren’t.
He’s right. If Matteo is found guilty, it’s not just his loss—it’s Luca’s.
The Marchesi name takes a hit. Their power cracks.
And Renzo, Luca’s arch enemy, wins.
The weight of that realization presses down on my ribs.
This was never about justice. Never about truth.
This is a power move in a much bigger game.
I just walked onto the board without realizing it.
I close my file, pushing it toward the center of the table. “The forensic report proves the bullet in Rojas’s body didn’t come from the gun found in your car.”
Matteo tilts his head. “So?”
“So,” I say, meeting his gaze head-on, “that means I can prove you didn’t pull the trigger.”
Matteo leans back in his seat, his smirk deepening. “Then I guess I’ll owe you a drink when this is over.”
I don’t react. I just rise from my chair, gathering my notes.
“If I get you out of this, you owe me a lot more than a drink, Marchesi.”
His grin doesn’t fade. “And here I thought you were the selfless type.”
I don’t correct him.
Because I’m not.
I’m here for my own survival.
For Claire.
For Rafa.
And maybe, just maybe, because winning is the only thing I know how to do.
---
I step out of the prison and into the open air, the weight of the conversation settling over me like a storm about to break.
Matteo’s warning still lingers in my head.
"You trust the wrong people, bella."
It’s Luca he’s talking about. It has to be.
But something gnaws at the edges of my thoughts, a whisper of doubt that won’t leave.
Because if this case is a setup, if Matteo was put in that cell to hurt Luca…
Then who made the call to turn him in?
Who tipped off the cops?
I rub my temple, exhaustion seeping into my bones. I need to focus.
In a week from now, Matteo’s trial begins.
In a week from now, I step into a courtroom for the first time in years.
And if I fail—I’m not the only one who loses.