Page 39 of Of Lies and Shadows

He studies me for a long moment. Then says quietly tothe room, “Leave us.”

There’s a murmur of protest, but one look from Judge Rizzo has them all backing out, one by one, until it’s just him and me.

The door clicks shut behind the others. Silence falls, and slowly, the judge’s mask slips.

His mouth softens. His shoulders lower, the stern, cold enforcer disappearing—revealing only the man beneath.

“I’m sorry, Francesca,” he says quietly, using my real name now. “Truly.”

The sound of it, spoken with sadness instead of accusation, almost undoes me.

I exhale a shaky breath and lower myself into the chair in front of his desk, the fight draining out of me all at once.

“Don’t be,” I whisper. “You’re doing what you have to do.”

He studies me for a long moment. His eyes, so often cold in court, are warm now. Pained.

“You have a good heart,” he says, his voice thick. “You always have. Don't let them strip you of it.”

A lump rises in my throat so fast I can barely swallow it down because once, years ago, when I was just a teenager, lost and angry but not yet broken, I met his daughter.

Sweet, shy, bright-eyed Anika, with her Down syndrome and her unmatched laugh. The girl no one else wanted to sit with at lunch.

I didn’t sit with her because I felt sorry for her. I sat with her because she was kind and funny. And somehow, all these years later, he remembers.

He remembers that girl. Not the spy. Not the pawn.Just…me.

He shakes his head slowly, the weight of it like an invisible chain between us.

“How did they convince you to do this?” he asks.

I wave my hand dismissively, hollow humor scraping my chest. “I’m just trading one prison for another.”

He exhales sharply, a sound full of frustration and helplessness. “I can’t get you out of this,” he admits.

I nod, already knowing. “You shouldn’t,” I say softly. “You have to stay impartial.”

His mouth presses into a grim line.

“But I’m begging you,” he says, leaning forward, desperation bleeding into his voice. “Don’t add those words into the marriage contract. If you do, Francesca… I won’t be able to protect you.”

I offer him a small, broken smile. “You never could, Mister Rizzo,” I whisper. “I’m a woman in a repugnant world. You can’t stop marital rape. You can’t stop a husband’s hand if he decides to break his wife’s ribs.” My voice cracks, but I force the words out anyway. “I know because I’ve seen it happen. Over and over.”

He looks away then, his shoulders sagging under the kind of defeat that doesn’t come from age but from bearing witness to too much cruelty for too long.

For a moment, the room is silent except for the sound of my breathing—shallow, fractured, and brave in all the wrong ways.

Finally, he turns back to me. His mouth tightens.

“What would it do, exactly, if I added that?” he asks quietly.

“If we spell itout,” I say, forcing my voice to stay steady, “that I’m not to fulfill any wifely duties… he can’t demand a child from me, right? I could take contraception without breaking my oath. I wouldn’t have to attend his tedious parties. I wouldn’t have to entertain. I could stay in the shadows.” I smile, but there’s no joy in it. “Just the domestic help. Nothing more.”

He twists his mouth, considering. “I suppose… but you understand what that means, don’t you?” he says carefully. “You’ll have none of the privileges of a wife. No financial guarantees. No social standing. No protections. Nothing.”

I shrug. “That was never the plan anyway.”

He lets out a long, heavy sigh. “I still think it’s a terrible idea,” he mutters.

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