Chapter 28 Dante
Dante
Part of me had been homesick for New Jersey since I’d moved out to Hell Creek. I thought, once Nick and I were settled, that maybe we could go back and visit someday. However, returning in handcuffs was not the homecoming I’d imagined.
For the past two days I’d been cramped into a tiny cell back in Montana.
But now, thanks to a red-eye flight, I was back home in Jersey before sunrise for my arraignment.
From the way Caruso had been bragging, it sounded like both the judge and the prosecution couldn’t wait to put me behind bars forever.
I didn’t sleep during the flight. How could I? Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Nick’s face in that driveway, saw the way he’d looked at me through the window of Caruso’s SUV. Like his whole world was ending. Like I was being ripped away from him before we’d even had a chance to really begin.
The plane touched down at Newark Liberty just as the sky was turning gray. Caruso had me cuffed the entire flight, drawing stares from the other passengers. I kept my head down, my jaw clenched, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing me rattled.
A second set of cops met us at the gate, and they walked me through the terminal like I was some kind of trophy. I caught glimpses of people recording on their phones, whispering to each other. By the time we made it outside, I was sure my arrest would be all over the local news.
The drive to the courthouse was a blur of familiar streets that felt foreign now.
I’d grown up here, knew these neighborhoods like the back of my hand.
But after months in Montana, with its wide open spaces and clean air, Jersey felt claustrophobic.
The buildings pressed in too close, the traffic was too loud, the air tasted wrong.
We pulled into the underground parking at the courthouse, and my stomach dropped. This was real. This was actually happening. I was going to be arraigned for murdering an entire family and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
I’d already been processed back in Montana, but they did it again here. Fingerprints, photos, the whole degrading routine. Then they stuck me in a holding cell with three other guys who looked like they’d rather be anywhere else. One of them recognized me, his eyes going wide.
“Valenti?” he whispered. “Holy shit, what are you in for?”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him. I just sat on the bench and stared at the concrete wall, trying to keep my breathing steady.
Hours passed. Or maybe minutes. Time felt meaningless in that cell.
Finally, a guard called my name, and I was led by two armed police officers to the courtroom.
The corridor was narrow and fluorescent-lit, the kind of institutional lighting that made everyone look half-dead.
My hands were cuffed in front of me now, and I could hear the shuffle of my feet against the linoleum, the jingle of metal, the heavy breathing of the guards flanking me.
They pushed through a set of double doors, and suddenly I was in the courtroom.
It was packed. Every seat in the gallery filled with people I didn’t recognize.
There were reporters and photographers and what looked like every fucking random person they could fit in there off the street.
I assumed it was Caruso’s doing, or the state prosecution.
They’d been wanting to shame my family publicly for years, so they’d turned the courthouse into a goddamn circus.
I glanced up at the prosecution table where three lawyers in expensive suits were already seated and looking smug.
And the defense table was empty.
My stomach lurched. Where the fuck was my lawyer? Had my father not sent anyone? Was I supposed to face this alone?
But then I saw movement near the back of the courtroom, and my breath caught.
Nick was there.
He was sitting in the front row of the gallery, his cowboy hat in his lap, his knuckles white where he gripped it. Our eyes met across the room, and I saw everything in his face. Fear, determination… love. He gave me the smallest nod, like he was trying to tell me he was here, that I wasn’t alone.
Beside him sat my father.
Enzo Valenti looked like he’d stepped out of a boardroom, his suit immaculate, his expression unreadable. But his eyes were on me, and there was something in them I couldn’t quite parse. Anger, maybe. Or disappointment. Or both.
Angelo was there too, looking exhausted and nervous. And next to him, surprisingly, was Heather. She caught me looking and didn’t look away, just lifted her chin slightly. Not quite friendly, but not hostile either.
The guard directed me to the defense table, and I sat down heavily, my cuffs rattling.
A moment later, the side door opened and a man in a sharp suit strode in, his briefcase swinging.
He was older, maybe sixty, with silver hair and the kind of face that had seen a thousand courtrooms. I recognized him immediately as the family lawyer.
“Mr. Valenti,” he said quietly, taking the seat beside me. “We don’t have much time, so listen carefully.”
“Where have you been?” I hissed.
“I’ve been prepping for this arraignment for two days,” he replied cheerfully. “Pretty good turnout, huh?”
I just stared at him. “Are you happy there’s a crowd?”
He nodded. “It’ll make things easier.”
“Easier?!” I hissed. “Are you trying to get me imprisoned for life?”
“Mr. Valenti, there’s only one thing you need to do today,” he said, his voice cool and collected. “Don’t say a single word. That’s it.”
“But—”
He held up a hand. “Not a single one. I’ve got this under control.”
I wanted to argue, but the bailiff called for everyone to stand as the judge entered. She was an older woman with steel-gray hair and reading glasses perched on her nose and took her seat with the kind of efficiency that spoke of decades on the bench.
“All rise for the Honorable Judge Lorelei Brennan,” the bailiff announced.
Everyone sat back down, and I felt the weight of all those eyes on me. The reporters were already scribbling notes, cameras clicking despite the bailiff’s earlier warning. Judge Brennan gaveled the room to order.
“Case number 2024-CR-8847, State of New Jersey versus Dante Valenti,” she read from the docket. “The defendant is charged with four counts of first-degree murder in the deaths of Thomas Benson, Margaret Benson, Emily Benson, and Jacob Benson.”
Hearing it laid out like that made my stomach turn. Four lives. An entire family. And they thought I’d killed them all.
“How does the defendant plead?” Judge Brennan asked.
My lawyer stood smoothly. “Your Honor, before we enter a plea, the defense would like to move for immediate dismissal of all charges.”
A murmur rippled through the courtroom. I saw Caruso lean forward at the prosecution table, his expression darkening. The lead prosecutor, a woman with sharp features and sharper eyes, stood up.
“Your Honor, this is highly irregular—”
“It’s well within our rights,” my lawyer interrupted. “And I believe once you hear our reasoning, you’ll agree that these charges are baseless.”
Judge Brennan looked annoyed. “Mr. Sullivan, I don’t have time for theatrics. This is an arraignment, not a trial.”
“I understand that, Your Honor. But the prosecution’s entire case rests on the premise that my client murdered four people.” He paused for effect. “People who are, in fact, very much alive.”
The courtroom erupted. Reporters shouted questions, the gallery buzzed with confused chatter, and Judge Brennan had to gavel three times to restore order.
“Explain yourself, counselor,” she demanded.
“The Benson family is alive and well,” Sullivan said calmly. “And they’re here today, ready to testify to that fact.”
Caruso shot to his feet. “This is absurd! We have evidence—blood, DNA—”
“Staged,” Sullivan said. “All of it. The Bensons faked their deaths to escape both mob retaliation and law enforcement pressure. They’ve been living peacefully in Costa Rica under assumed names for months.”
“Your Honor, this is a desperate attempt—” the prosecutor started.
“If you have them, bring them in,” Judge Brennan said, cutting her off. She looked skeptical but curious. “But be warned Mr. Sullivan, if this is theatrics, I will have you held in contempt.”
“Of course, your honor.” Sullivan nodded to someone in the back, and the courtroom doors opened.
I turned in my seat, my heart pounding.
Thomas Benson walked in first, looking healthier than the last time I’d seen him. His wife Margaret followed, then their two children, Emily and Jacob, both looking nervous but very much alive. They moved down the center aisle, and the courtroom went absolutely silent.
I heard someone gasp. Saw Caruso’s face go white. The prosecutor looked like she’d been punched in the gut.
The Bensons reached the front of the courtroom, and Sullivan gestured for them to stand near the witness box.
“Your Honor,” he said, “may I present the allegedly deceased Benson family.”
Judge Brennan stared at them, her expression unreadable. “Mr. Benson, you are Thomas Benson?”
“Yes, Your Honor,” Thomas said, his voice steady.
“And this is your family?”
“Yes, ma’am. My wife Margaret, and our children Emily and Jacob.”
The judge looked at the prosecution table. “Counselor, would you like to explain how you’re prosecuting someone for murdering four people who are standing in my courtroom?”
The prosecutor’s mouth opened and closed. Caruso had gone from white to red, his hands clenched into fists.
“Your Honor, we—there must be some mistake,” she stammered. “We had DNA evidence, blood—”
“Which we staged,” Thomas interrupted. “I was cooperating with Detective Caruso, because he threatened to have my son arrested. But then I realized we’d be in danger if anyone found out. So, we faked our deaths and disappeared.”
“And Mr. Valenti’s involvement in this?” Judge Brennan asked.
Thomas looked at me, and I saw something in his eyes I hadn’t expected. Gratitude.
“Dante Valenti saved our lives,” he said clearly. “He helped us disappear. He gave us new identities, set us up in Costa Rica, made sure we were safe.” He paused, taking a breath. “Without him, we’d actually be dead.”
The courtroom exploded again. I sat there, stunned, watching as reporters shouted questions and cameras flashed. Caruso looked like he wanted to flip the table. The prosecution team was in a panicked huddle.
Judge Brennan gaveled for order, her face tight with anger.
“The prosecution will approach the bench.” But she made no attempt to keep her voice down as she tore into them.
“Do you have any idea what kind of embarrassment you’ve brought to this court?
” she snapped at the prosecution. “You dragged us all here, made headlines about a quadruple murder, and the victims are standing in my courtroom. Alive!”
“Your Honor, we had credible evidence—” the lead prosecutor tried.
“Credible evidence that was apparently staged!” Judge Brennan’s voice could have cut glass. “Did you find the bodies? Did you confirm deaths beyond DNA that could have been planted?”
“Detective Caruso assured us—”
“Detective Caruso,” the judge said, turning her glare on him, “is going to have a lot of explaining to do to his superiors. As are you and your entire team. You’ll be lucky if any of you have a career with the public ever again.”
I watched Caruso’s face cycle through emotions, rage, humiliation, and desperation. This was his career ending in real time, and everyone in the room knew it. Fifteen years of chasing my family, and he’d finally overplayed his hand.
Judge Brennan returned her attention to the courtroom. “Mr. Sullivan, I assume you have documentation proving the Bensons’ identities?”
“We do, Your Honor.” Sullivan pulled out a folder thick with papers. “Passports, birth certificates, rental agreements in Costa Rica, bank statements. Everything you need to verify that these are indeed the Benson family.”
The judge took the folder, flipping through it with sharp, efficient movements. The silence in the courtroom was deafening. I could hear my own heartbeat in the pause.
“These appear to be in order,” she said finally. “Mr. Benson, you and your family will need to provide sworn statements, but for now...” She looked at me, and I saw something that might have been sympathy. “All charges against Dante Valenti are hereby dismissed.”
The gavel came down with a sharp crack that seemed to echo through my entire body.
Dismissed.