Chapter 7 - GIANNA SAID SHE DID IT FOR THE FAMILY, AND FOR ONCE NOBODY ACCEPTED THAT AS AN EXCUSE
Gianna took the stand against her attorney’s advice.
I learned later she believed she could explain.
Powerful people often confuse explanation with immunity.
Her trial lasted six weeks.
Evidence was overwhelming.
The bunker recording.
Marco.
Financial transfers.
Hit-team communications.
Daniel’s recordings.
Harold Finch’s testimony.
Trust documents.
Gianna’s own movements.
Still, she denied murder intent.
She admitted planning “a confrontation” with Lorenzo.
Claimed Marco escalated.
The jury heard her recorded voice:
Make sure the strike in the garden looks like an outside hit. Once Lorenzo’s body is identified, succession automatically falls to me.
Hard to explain.
Her attorney tried.
“She spoke metaphorically.”
The prosecutor almost smiled.
“About calla lilies for a metaphorical casket?”
No answer.
Then Daniel.
Gianna claimed she had told Marco only to remove Daniel from sensitive work.
Harold testified he was paid to ensure Daniel “didn’t bring electrical records to Lorenzo.”
The prosecutor asked:
“What did you understand that to mean?”
“To kill him.”
Silence.
I sat in gallery holding Daniel’s wedding ring inside my fist.
Lorenzo sat two rows away.
He had been permitted attendance as victim and cooperating witness.
No criminal entourage.
No throne.
Just suit.
Cane gone.
Scar near eyebrow.
He did not look at Gianna until prosecutor played original recording.
Then sister and brother met eyes.
Gianna’s face changed.
For one second she looked less like calculating heir.
More like older sister who once tied his shoes.
I wondered what childhood turns love into succession mathematics.
Not enough to excuse.
Enough to mourn.
When Lorenzo testified, defense attacked his criminal history.
Fair.
“You extorted business owners?”
“Yes.”
“Bribed officials?”
“Yes.”
“Directed violence?”
“Yes.”
“You expect jury to believe your sister is monster while you are victim?”
Lorenzo looked toward jury.
“No.”
That surprised defense.
“I expect them to evaluate evidence against her.”
“My crimes are mine.”
“Her crimes are hers.”
Good.
“You hated your sister?”
“No.”
“Still love her?”
Lorenzo froze.
Then:
“Yes.”
The courtroom shifted.
Defense attorney smiled as if victory.
“So you want leniency?”
“No.”
Gianna closed eyes.
Lorenzo continued.
“Love does not erase what she did.”
There.
The entire family culture breaking in one sentence.
When I testified, defense attacked my settlement.
“You received substantial money after your husband’s death.”
“Yes.”
“From Duca Holdings.”
“Corporate insurer and restitution process.”
“Still money.”
“Yes.”
“Would you be here without it?”
I stared.
“Yes.”
“Were you romantically involved with Lorenzo?”
“No.”
“Are you now?”
The prosecutor objected.
Judge sustained.
Defense tried again.
“You have personal affection for him.”
Camille had prepared me.
“Possibly.”
Murmur.
“But?”
I added before lawyer could.
“That does not change a recording of Gianna ordering a hit or the forensic evidence in my husband’s car.”
Good.
“Did Lorenzo encourage your testimony?”
“No.”
“Pay you?”
“No.”
“Provide housing?”
“No.”
“School?”
“No.”
“Security?”
“Only through court-approved threat response coordinated with authorities.”
Good.
Then defense:
“Why did you save him?”
I almost laughed.
“Because he was bleeding to death in front of my daughter.”
“No other reason?”
“I was trained in trauma nursing.”
“So professional instinct.”
“Human instinct.”
The attorney stopped.
That answer mattered to me.
I had not saved Lorenzo because destiny.
Not because romance.
Not because he was secretly good.
I saved him because a dying man was in front of me and I knew what pressure to apply.
Everything afterward was choice.
Gianna was convicted.
Attempted murder conspiracy against Lorenzo.
Conspiracy tied to Daniel’s murder.
Financial crimes.
Obstruction.
Multiple related counts.
She remained composed until judge revoked remaining privileges and remanded her.
Then she turned toward Lorenzo.
“You’re letting them put me in a cage.”
His face broke.
“No.”
“You did this.”
“No.”
“Mara did this.”
I stood.
Lorenzo shook head.
“You did.”
Gianna cried.
“Family should have handled family.”
Lorenzo whispered:
“That belief killed Daniel.”
Then:
“And almost killed me.”
She stared.
He continued.
“I love you.”
Her face collapsed.
“But I’m not saving you from truth.”
She was taken away.
I expected satisfaction.
Nothing.
Daniel stayed dead.
Lorenzo still carried scars.
Emma still once heard men hunting a wounded man through a shed.
Justice did not restore.
It stopped something.
Sometimes enough.
Sentencing came months later.
Gianna received decades.
Marco received a reduced but substantial sentence for cooperation.
Harold Finch too.
No one disappeared mysteriously.
No one’s body entered river.
The old Duca way ended in fluorescent courtrooms.
Lorenzo’s own sentencing came afterward.
He stood before another judge.
I attended only because he asked.
Not beside him.
Gallery.
He spoke:
“I spent years calling criminal activity protection.”
“I believed fear created order.”
“It created silence.”
“That silence allowed my sister to build crimes inside my organization without challenge.”
He paused.
“That does not make me responsible for every act she committed.”
“But it makes me responsible for the system I knowingly operated.”
Good.
The judge sentenced him to twenty-eight months, with part eligible for home confinement after an initial custodial term because of cooperation, injury, dismantling efforts, and no murder conviction.
Still prison.
Lorenzo closed eyes.
Then nodded.
I felt my heart crack.
Emma was four by then.
We told her simply.
“Lorenzo broke laws.”
She frowned.
“Bad giant?”
“Sometimes he did bad things.”
“Does he say sorry?”
“Yes.”
“Then home?”
“Not yet.”
“Why?”
“Sorry doesn’t erase consequence.”
She thought.
“Like timeout.”
“Yes.”
“Big timeout.”
I smiled sadly.
“Yes.”
Before he surrendered, Lorenzo asked to see Emma.
We met in a park.
No guards close.
He crouched.
“Little one.”
She handed him something.
Yellow bear Band-Aid.
His face changed.
“For prison?”
she said.
I almost laughed and cried simultaneously.
“Hopefully I won’t need medical care.”
“Keep.”
He accepted.
“Thank you.”
Then Emma hugged him.
Lorenzo looked at me.
I nodded.
He hugged her.
When she ran toward playground, he stood.
“Two years.”
“Maybe less.”
“Still.”
“Yes.”
“I won’t ask you to wait.”
“Good.”
His face tightened.
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“You should date.”
I stared.
“Don’t tell me what I should do.”
He laughed.
“Right.”
Then:
“If you meet someone good—”
“Lorenzo.”
“I’m trying to be noble.”
“You’re terrible at it.”
He smiled.
Then became serious.
“I love you.”
My breath stopped.
First time.
No crisis.
No bullet.
No courtroom.
“I’m not saying it so you owe answer.”
Good.
“I just won’t go inside hiding it.”
Tears filled my eyes.
“I love you too.”
His entire face changed.
“But.”
He laughed through tears.
“Of course.”
“I do not know what that means in two years.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not promising marriage.”
“Yes.”
“I’m not promising I’ll wait.”
“Yes.”
“I will write if I want.”
“Yes.”
“You can write.”
“Yes.”
“And Emma chooses whether she wants visits.”
“Yes.”
Lorenzo nodded.
Then kissed my forehead only after asking with his eyes and hearing my whispered:
“Yes.”
No dramatic mouth kiss.
Not yet.
May you like
He surrendered the next morning.
For the first time, Lorenzo Duca entered a locked building without believing his surname should open the door.
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