"The person who withdrew the complaint… was your husband. Colino Marconi." He paused, letting the name settle between us like a blade. "None of us are in a position to go against the Marconi heir. The Family's reach extends further than you know. I'm truly sorry, Miss Giordano."
And just like that, with a small nod to his men, he had two soldiers escort me out into the street. Their grips were firm but not cruel—professional. They'd done this before.
But I wasn't giving up.
There had to be someone in this godforsaken city who still had a spine. Someone who hadn't been bought, threatened, or broken by the Syndicate's iron fist.
Hands shaking, I called every connected attorney I could find—men who'd represented capos, who'd gotten made men acquitted, who supposedly feared nothing. One by one, they turned me away. The replies were all the same, delivered in hushed, apologetic tones.
"Sorry, Miss Giordano. Colino Marconi made it very clear—anyone who touches that case will find themselves on the wrong side of the Family by morning. We can't help you. Capisce?"