Chapter 42 Chapter 42: Preparation for Testimony

Chapter 42 Chapter 42: Preparation for Testimony
Marcella's POV

I woke up tangled in Lorenzo, and for the first time since Morocco, I did not immediately remember the bullet. I remembered him. I remembered the comfort, the patience, the slow, honest way we had finally found our way back to each other.

The morning sun felt warm on my skin, and the feeling of being truly whole, not physically, but emotionally, was overwhelming. We were okay. We had survived.

Then the phone rang.

It was Lorenzo’s right-hand man, reminding him of the prosecutor’s meeting at ten. The small, fragile peace I had woken up with shattered, replaced by the cold, hard weight of reality: the trial. Giovanni. The courtroom.

“I have to go to the city,” I told Lorenzo when he hung up.

He pulled me closer. “I know. I’ll drive you. We can go together.”

The prosecutor, a serious, tired woman named Dr. Vitale, met us in a sparse office near the Palace of Justice. She did not waste time.

“Signora De Luca,” she said, her voice dry and professional, “your testimony is the key to this case. We need to lock Giovanni up forever, and you are the only person who can put him in that room in Morocco, holding a gun and admitting his crimes.”

She laid out the evidence, mostly bank statements and phone records tying Giovanni to Cesare and the attempt on my life. But the confession, the cold, detailed account of my family’s murder, that was the prosecution’s star witness. That was me.

For two hours, we practiced. She asked the questions, and I gave the answers.

“Marcella, can you confirm for the court that during the time you were held captive in Morocco, the defendant, Giovanni Valenti, confessed to the murder of your parents, Marco and Isabella Vale?”

“Yes,” I said, my throat tight. “He confessed. He detailed how he set the fire and that he was paid by my father’s rival.”

“And why did he confess to you?”

“Because he believed he was going to kill me next. He wanted me to die knowing the truth.”

Dr. Vitale stopped, rubbing her temples. “That’s good. Clear, concise. But now, we have to talk about the defense attorney, Mr. Bianchi.”

She looked at Lorenzo, then back at me. “Bianchi’s job is to paint you as a biased, vengeful person. He will try to imply that you fabricated the confession to exact revenge on the man who shot you. He will focus heavily on your relationship with your husband.”

I frowned. “Why?”

“Because your husband is Lorenzo De Luca. A man who has, until recently, been outside the law. Bianchi will argue that you, a woman recovering from severe trauma, were coerced by your powerful husband into signing a false statement to eliminate a business threat.”

The reality of the courtroom hit me harder than the memory of the bullet. This was not about truth. It was about politics and perception.

“He will ask about your injury,” Dr. Vitale warned. “He will ask if you feel vindictive. He will ask how the bullet wound has affected your memory, your emotional stability, and your physical life.”

I looked down at my right arm, resting uselessly in my lap. The scar was hidden under my blouse, but I felt the phantom ache immediately.

“He’s going to make me sound crazy,” I whispered.

“He’s going to try. Your job is to stay calm, look him in the eye, and speak the truth simply. Do not let him provoke you.” She slid a piece of paper across the desk. “The trial begins Monday. You are scheduled to testify late Tuesday afternoon.”

We drove back to the estate, the silence in the car thick with tension.

Later that afternoon, I was staring into my closet, trying to decide what to wear for the trial. It was a pointless exercise that somehow felt incredibly important.

I picked out a dark blue dress, professional, conservative. I managed the zipper with my left hand, but the tiny button at the neck was impossible. My right hand, still clumsy and weak, refused to cooperate. I struggled for five minutes, the fabric pulling awkwardly.

Finally, in a flash of pure, frustrated rage, I ripped the dress off and threw it across the room.

“Damn it!” I yelled, spinning around. The sudden movement pulled my healing shoulder, sending a spike of pain through my chest.

Lorenzo was standing in the doorway. He did not rush me. He just watched.

Tears sprang to my eyes. “I can’t even dress myself for the court that is supposed to give me justice,” I choked out. “I feel like a child. And Bianchi is going to stand up there and tell the world I’m a broken, lying child.”

The breakthrough from the night before felt miles away. All I felt was the raw, humiliating reality of my limitations.

Lorenzo walked over slowly, picking up the wrinkled blue dress. He did not hug me. He knew I needed functionality, not comfort, right now.

He carefully re-buttoned the neck of the dress himself, smoothing the fabric.

“This is what you wear,” he said, holding it out.

“But I can’t button it.”

“Then I’ll button it. Every morning. Until you can do it yourself.”

He tossed the dress on the bed and took my hands, his eyes serious.

“Listen to me, Marcy. The truth is your shield. Giovanni confessed. He is a murderer. Your testimony is a formality, but it is a necessary one for you.”

“Why? Why is it necessary?”

“Because you can’t fully walk away from that life until you look the monster who destroyed your family in the eyes and watch him be confined forever. This is not revenge, amore. This is closure. This is you putting the final seal on the past, so we can finally start the future.”

He did not make light of the defense attorney. “Yes, Bianchi will try to hurt you. But he can’t take what you have. He can’t take your life, and he can’t take your love. He can only talk. And words are harmless compared to what you’ve already survived.”

His strength anchored me. He was right. I had faced bullets and death. I could face a defense attorney.

I swallowed, the tears receding. “Okay. What do I wear?”

“Something simple. A dark suit, if you have one. Something that says ‘witness,’ not ‘wife of a mafia boss.’” He grinned faintly. “We’ll get you dressed. And then tomorrow, we go to court, and we end this.”

I nodded, feeling a cold, steady resolve settle over me. The fear was still there, but now it felt like energy, not paralyzing terror. I was ready. I had to be.