Day Five of Trial
Dante barely spoke during breakfast. He sat at the table, staring at his coffee, his mind clearly elsewhere.
"You need to eat," Margaret said gently, pushing toast toward him.
"I'm not hungry."
"Dante—"
"Mom, I'm about to spend the day being dissected by a prosecutor who wants to paint me as a monster. I can't eat right now."
Margaret's eyes filled with tears. "You're not a monster."
"I killed forty-seven people. Including Mia's mother. What would you call that?"
"Someone who was manipulated. Someone who's trying to make amends." She gripped his hand. "You're my son. And I love you. No matter what that prosecutor says."
Dante's composure cracked. "What if the jury convicts Mia because of me? What if my past destroys her future?"
"Then we appeal," I said, entering the kitchen. "And we keep fighting. But Dante—we can't think like that. We have to believe the truth will win."
"The truth is I'm a killer."
