THE WILD GIRL’S DEFENSE

THE WILD GIRL’S DEFENSE
POV: Valentina

“You don’t deny the footage?”

The question slammed like a gavel in the echoing chamber.

“No,” Valentina said, her voice smooth as obsidian. She stood tall in the center of the tribunal room, arms at her sides, her branded palm faintly visible where the glove had been peeled off. “I don’t deny the fire. I honor it.”

The council blinked in silence.

Don Belvini narrowed his eyes. “You set flame to De Luca velvet. In rage.”

“In memory,” she corrected. “Rage remembers. But memory… memory doesn’t lie.”

“You threatened to burn down this estate—”

“And I still might,” she said coolly, “if that’s what it takes to purify the rot hiding in its walls.”

A ripple stirred the council—shock, offense, and something else: unease.

Valentina stepped forward. “Let me ask you, gentlemen: would you rather I burned it all down—” she gestured around, her voice rising—“or let the rot fester behind gilded doors while you sip wine and pretend it doesn’t exist?”

Silvio Moretti straightened in his chair. “You insult this chamber.”

“I illuminate it.”

Marco stood now, hands steepled before him. “The woman is a flame without form. She slips between fury and delusion. She's unstable—dangerous.”

Valentina smiled without warmth. “Dangerous to you, maybe.”

“Let the record reflect,” Marco pressed on, “she’s confessed to violence. Threats. She destroyed the family vault—”

“That’s a lie,” she snapped. “You forged footage. Cut my voice into a ghost. I have the original file.”

Murmurs again.

Don Primo squinted at her. “Where is it?”

Valentina turned her head. “Adriano?”

From the shadows of the tribunal chamber, Adriano stepped forward. Dressed in black, his side still stiff from the bullet, but his gaze cutting. He held a slim drive between two fingers.

“She anticipated a betrayal,” he said. “So she made a backup.”

He handed it to the technician. The screen blinked to life.

Valentina (on tape): “This isn’t madness. It’s memory. The fire is a metaphor. But if they take my name, I’ll give them a legacy they can’t bury.”

No candle. No flame. Just pacing. Passion. Clarity.

The chamber fell still.

Then, from the side door—another figure entered.

A woman. Mid-thirties. Professional. Cool-eyed and composed.

Don Primo looked up. “And who is this?”

Adriano’s voice cut through the hush. “Dr. Elena Ruiz. Psychiatrist. Licensed.”

Dr. Ruiz stepped forward. “I evaluated Miss De Luca under ethical conditions. I was not planted by council members. I was not bribed. And I’m not here to sell a diagnosis that suits a political agenda.”

Moretti snorted. “Get to the point.”

“She does not meet the criteria for psychosis. Or delusional disorder. Or instability of any clinically dangerous kind.”

“Then what is she?”

Ruiz looked directly at Valentina.

“She is a survivor. Severely traumatized. Deeply intelligent. Defensive, because she’s had to be. But not mad. Not unstable. And not unfit to lead.”

Valentina held the therapist’s gaze. A breath passed between them. Silent gratitude.

Marco’s face twisted. “This is staged. You bring in your own mouthpiece to—”

“You brought in a liar with a forged badge,” Adriano growled. “You staged a mental breakdown to steal power from a woman who’s never bowed to you.”

Silence spread. Heavy. Dense.

Valentina inhaled once and turned back to the council.

“Let me call my final witnesses.”

“You want a defense team now?” Primo asked.

“No. I want to give this trial what it was always missing—truth.”

She nodded. Reina entered with two men. Rough. Hooded. Hands bound.

Valentina approached. Unmasked the first.

A gasp echoed.

Don Petrelli paled. “That’s… that’s Enzo Guerra. He vanished two years ago.”

“He didn’t vanish,” Valentina said. “He was buried beneath this estate. Locked in one of Marco’s interrogation chambers.”

Eyes darted to Marco.

Valentina continued. “I didn’t believe it until I saw it myself. The smell of bleach. The chains. The stained walls. You want to accuse me of fire—fine. But what about his blood rooms?”

She pointed to Marco.

The second prisoner was unmasked.

A former accountant. Stammering. Bruised.

“I was told to erase the ledgers,” he said, trembling. “Move money through offshore charities. Channel council funds into Marco’s own family trust…”

Gasps. Don Primo's hands clenched the arms of his chair.

“You’re laundering power,” Valentina said quietly, “while branding me the problem.”

Marco exploded from his seat. “ENOUGH!”

But he was no longer the center.

The chamber had turned.

Adriano stepped forward. “The only unstable one here is the man who put a bullet in my gut.”

“And the man who forged footage,” Valentina added, “lied about therapy, and tried to erase me—again.”

Don Primo’s hands shook. His voice broke the stillness.

“We will… recess. Briefly. Council members—”

But before he could finish, he stopped.

His fingers touched his lips.

Then his chest.

He made a sound like a cough.

Then a gurgle.

Blood bubbled from his mouth.

Valentina screamed, surging forward.

“GET HELP!”

Don Primo collapsed sideways in his chair.

A spray of red arced across the marble floor.

Adriano grabbed her, pulling her back as the guards swarmed.

“What’s happening—what—?”

Reina knelt, checked his pulse. “Poison,” she whispered. “Fast-acting.”

Marco backed away—eyes wide, hands up. “I didn’t—”

Valentina stared at him.

Then at the red on the floor.

On her shoes.

On the parchment of the crown charter, still lying between them.

The trial was over.

But the war had just become something else.

Something far more personal.

Don Primo dies, poisoned mid-session. Suspicion ignites across the chamber. And Valentina’s gaze never leaves Marco.