Chapter 9 - The Courtroom and the Gallows
Three weeks later, the courtroom in the Daley Center was packed to maximum capacity.
Reporters from every major paper in Illinois sat in the wooden pews, their pens scratching furiously against their pads.
I sat at the plaintiff’s table wearing a tailored black dress and a high-collared cashmere coat.
My hair was pulled back into a sharp, flawless chignon.
I wore no jewelry except for a pair of pearl earrings my mother had given me on my eighteenth birthday.
Aaron Feld sat to my right, arranging three thick binders of federal depositions and forensic accounting reports.
When the heavy doors at the back of the courtroom opened, a collective murmur ran through the gallery.
Enzo was led in by two state marshals, his wrists and ankles shackled in heavy steel chains.
He had lost thirty pounds in three weeks.
His expensive custom suits were gone, replaced by an ill-fitting orange jumpsuit issued by the county jail.
His hair was cut short, his jaw covered in graying stubble, and his dark eyes were hollowed out by sleeplessness and grief.
As he was led past my chair, he tried to stop.
He leaned down, his voice cracking like dry timber.
He whispered that he had killed Dante for me.
He whispered that he had destroyed the Tatalias with his own bare hands to avenge our child.
He begged me to look at him just once.
I did not turn my head.
I did not blink.
I kept my eyes fixed entirely upon the judge’s bench as if he were nothing more than a gust of dirty wind passing through the room.
The judge took her seat and slammed the wooden gavel down with three sharp cracks.
The proceedings took less than forty-five minutes.
There was no argument over the distribution of assets.
Enzo’s defense attorney stood up and stated that his client had signed an unconditional surrender of all claims to marital and corporate property.
He surrendered the houses.
He surrendered the shipping rights.
He surrendered every bank account, every vehicle, and every piece of land he had ever held under the Moretti name.
In the front row of the gallery sat Bianca Rossi, flanked by two federal agents who had brought her from the detention center.
Her bail had been denied on racketeering and accessory charges.
She looked at Enzo with pure hatred, while Enzo never once turned to acknowledge her existence.
When the judge finalized the decree of divorce, the gavel fell like a guillotine.
Carmela Romano was restored to her name, her property, and her freedom.
As the marshals pulled Enzo toward the side door leading to the holding cells, he fought against the chains with desperate, frantic strength.
He screamed that he was sorry.
He screamed that he would spend the rest of his life making it right if I would only visit him once.
He screamed until his voice blew out into a ragged, bloody cough.
The heavy metal door slammed shut behind him, cutting off his cries mid-sentence.
I stood up, buttoned my coat, and thanked the judge with a polite, measured nod.
I walked down the center aisle of the courtroom with my head held high, surrounded by four Romano security men.
Flashbulbs went off in my face like miniature explosions of lightning.
Microphones were thrust toward my mouth by journalists shouting over one another for a comment.
They asked if I felt safe now that the Moretti boss was behind bars.
They asked if I had any words for the man who had abandoned me on West Archer.
I paused at the top of the grand marble courthouse steps, looking out over the city that my family had built.
I told the cameras that Enzo Moretti had not died in prison.
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I told them he had died the moment he sent that text message into the snow.
Then I stepped into the back of my private town car and closed the heavy door against the noise of the world.
