I splash water on my face. Try to pull myself together.
My reflection looks wrecked. Aroused. Guilty.
I did what I came to do.
I told the truth.
And Dario looked at me through all of it like I was something precious instead of the woman destroying his life.
Do what you need to do. I’ll be okay.
I did.
And now I have to live in a body that wants him more with every breath I take away from him. I testified. I condemned him. And I’d still beg to taste his fingers in the parking lot.
Chapter Four
DARIO
The courtroom smells like old wood and expensive cologne and the particular brand of anxiety that comes from people pretending they’re not nervous.
I’m not pretending.
I lean back in my chair, one hand resting on the table, the other in my lap. Relaxed. Because I am relaxed. This has always been going to end one way.
My lawyer, Vincent DeLuca, is at the bench with the prosecution and the judge. There’s a lot of intense whispering. Harrison’s face is getting red.
Vincent comes back, adjusts his cufflinks, and leans close enough that only I can hear.
“Chain of custody issue on the primary evidence. The knife. Someone fucked up the transfer log between evidence collection and the lab.” His mouth barely moves. “Judge is dismissing.”
I nod once. Expected. Vincent’s firm doesn’t lose. That’s why we pay them what we pay them.
The judge clears his throat.
“In light of the defense’s motion regarding evidence handling, and after reviewing the documentation, this court has no choice but to grant the motion to dismiss. The evidence in question is foundational to the prosecution’s case and without it...” He looks annoyed. Tired. “Case dismissed. Mr. Marchetti, you’re free to go.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then movement. Noise. Harrison gathering his files like he wants to throw them. The gallery erupting in whispers. My uncle Sal clapping me on the shoulder hard enough to bruise.
“Told you,” Sal says, grinning. “Told you Vincent would handle it.”
I stand. Button my jacket. Accept the congratulations that flow in from the family members scattered throughout the courtroom.
But I’m thinking about her.
Two days ago, sitting in that witness stand with her hands gripping the edge so hard I thought she might splinter the wood. The way her voice went breathy when she had to point at me. When she had to say my name.
Him. Dario Marchetti.
Saying it did something to her. Made her body react in ways she couldn’t hide
I’d wanted to walk to the stand, take her hand, cup her face, and tell her she was brave and moral and beautiful in ways that were about more than her appearance.
Then bend her over the defense table and bury myself in her cunt.
“Dario.” Vincent’s voice pulls me back. “We should go. Press is going to be out front.”
