Page 26 of Code Name: Dante

As McKinney led me through the evidence—recordings, financial records, witness statements—I noticed movement at the back of the courtroom. A man I didn’t recognize slipped into the gallery, his attention fixed not on the proceedings but on his phone. How he held himself, slightly angled toward the exits, set off warning bells. Another one entered moments later, taking up position on the opposite side of the doors.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. Despite protocols, I’d insisted on keeping it on silent in case of emergency. The court officers had agreed, given the ongoing security concerns. When McKinney paused to consult her notes, I glanced down quickly.

Black sedan outside coffee shop again. Looks like same vehicle with different plates. Team tracking.

I forced myself to focus on McKinney’s next question, even as my mind raced through contingencies. The timing wasn’t coincidental. Vincent’s subtle smile told me he knew exactly what was happening. This was his game—dividing my attention, making me choose between the testimony that could put him away and protecting those I cared about.

“Mr. Castellano,” McKinney continued, her tone sharpening with the gravity of what was to come. “Please tell the court about the events of March fifteenth, particularly regarding the murder of Jessica McNamara.”

My throat tightened. Another innocent caught in Vincent’s web. “My brother ordered her execution after learning she’d discovered evidence of judicial bribes.”

“Objection, speculation,” Vincent’s lawyer called out.

“Overruled. Continue, Mr. Castellano,” said the judge.

I detailed the sequence of events, each word driving home how many lives my brother had destroyed. Jessica had been a paralegal, working late one night when she stumbled across documents that implicated several justices with Vincent. She’d tried to do the right thing, going to her supervisor. Three days later, her body was found in the East River.

“And how did you learn of the defendant’s death?”

“I was present both when he ordered the hit and again when he received word it had been a success.” The memory was crystal clear—Vincent’s office overlooking Central Park and the casual way he’d mentioned having “taken care of the problem” while selecting a tie for dinner. “He said it would serve as a message to others.”

Throughout my testimony, my brother maintained that amused expression, as though this were all an elaborate game. But when McKinney mentioned the encrypted files we’d recovered—the ones that would expose his entire network—something shifted in his eyes. A coldness I recognized from countless “negotiations” that had ended badly for the other party.

“Perhaps we should discuss more recent events,” he said loudly, cutting off his lawyer’s attempt to silence him. “Like your new friend in Gloversville. Lovely girl. Such striking blonde hair. What was her name again? Lark?”

The judge’s gavel cracked sharply. “Mr. Romano, control your client.”

But Vincent had achieved his goal. The threat was clear—he could reach anyone, anywhere. Even from behind bars, his influence extended far beyond these courthouse walls. Again, I thought of everything her family had already lost because of mine.

My phone buzzed again.Two more vehicles arrived. Team mobilizing.

I met Vincent’s gaze steadily, refusing to show the fear clawing at my chest. He might think he still held all the cards, but he’d forgotten one crucial detail—I’d learned deception at his knee. And this time, I wasn’t the only one with something to protect.

“Mr. Castellano,” McKinney pressed on. “Please describe the structure of the organization’s financial operations.”

For the next hour, I laid out the complex web of shell companies, offshore accounts, and legitimate businesses used to launder money. Each detail was another nail in Vincent’s coffin, but I could feel him watching, calculating. The man had taught me chess when I was six, explaining that the key was thinking three moves ahead.

During a brief recess, after the two guys who’d raised my hackles earlier left, I stepped into the hallway and called Tank.

“Status?”

“Three more vehicles now,” he reported. “Professional surveillance setup. They’re good—keeping their distance, rotating positions. This feels coordinated. Too sophisticated for local muscle.”

“Because it is. Vincent’s sending a message.” I glanced through the courthouse windows, studying the street below. “He wants me to know his reach of power hasn’t changed.”

“While you’re stuck in court.”

“Exactly.” I caught movement in my peripheral vision—one of the men from the gallery, watching me. “Keep me updated. And, Tank? Don’t let Lark take any unnecessary risks.”

“Copy that. Though between you and me, that woman’s as stubborn as?—”

“Her grandmother?” I finished, remembering how Mrs. Gregory had faced me down in her kitchen.

Tank’s chuckle was cut short by a commotion in the background. “Gotta go.”

The call ended, leaving me with a knot in my gut. Vincent had always excelled at psychological warfare. This was just the opening move—letting me know he had things in play, making me imagine worst-case scenarios. The real strike would come later, when he thought I was off-balance.

Back in the courtroom, McKinney moved on to the evidence of FBI corruption. I described meetings in private clubs, the envelopes of cash passed in parking garages, and the careful grooming of ambitious young agents who might someday rise in the hierarchy of the organization. Through it all, Vincent maintained his pleasant smile, but his eyes had gone cold.

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