Chapter 8 - The Trial of the Century in Manhattan
The next morning, Courtroom 1 of the Manhattan Supreme Court brimmed with journalists, reporters, and federal agents. The trial of billionaire tycoon Dominic Russo for the murder of his wife and collusion with international crime syndicates had shocked America, claiming front-page headlines from New York to London.
I entered the courtroom in an orange jumpsuit, yet my posture and stride remained as proud and unyielding as a king refusing to surrender his throne.
In the front row reserved for attendees, Elena sat beside Rosa, holding little Lucia while Rosa cradled the twins. Seeing me, Lucia's gaze flickered. She no longer held the freezing hostility of the kitchen encounter, though lingering fear remained.
Chief Judge Harrison—renowned for his integrity and strictness—rapped his gavel three times, calling for order.
"The criminal trial against defendant Dominic Russo is now officially in session," Judge Harrison announced in a deep, authoritative tone. "The prosecution may present its opening statements."
Chief Prosecutor Robert Sterling—a sharp-witted man rumored to have underground ties to Wall Street elites—stood up, clutching a thick file folder.
"Your Honor, members of the jury," Sterling proclaimed, pacing the courtroom. "Defendant Dominic Russo is not merely the successful businessman the public admires. He is a ruthless kingpin who turned his own home into a battleground. On that fateful day, the defendant deliberately colluded with criminal syndicates to eliminate his own flesh-and-blood wife—who dared expose his money-laundering crimes. Proof lies in the audio recording recovered directly from the defendant's private safe, alongside testimony from the youngest witness: his own biological daughter!"
The courtroom erupted into murmurs. Reporters frantically snapped photos.
"Order in the courtroom!" Judge Harrison banged his gavel, looking down at me. "Defendant Dominic Russo, how do you plead to these charges?"
I calmly stood up, adjusting my handcuffs, and stepped out toward the jury box. I didn't flinch.
"Your Honor," I said in a deep, echoing voice. "The prosecution is half right. That recording is authentic. I did indeed have fierce arguments with my wife, Isabella, regarding dark secrets in my business world. But..."
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I paused, sweeping my piercing gaze toward the VIP gallery where Victor Thorne sat in solitary arrogance with a smug smile.
"...I never ordered my wife's murder. The man pulling the strings behind the ambush at the Queens intersection isn't me—it's the man sitting in the third row: billionaire Victor Thorne."
