Three months later, I sat in the front row of a federal courtroom. The polished benches smelled of old paper, dust, and furniture wax. The room stayed silent while the judge reviewed the file.
Dante and Sienna shared the defendant's bench with a guard between them. Three months in custody had left Dante's expensive suit hanging loose across his shoulders.
He stared at a point above the judge and never looked toward Sienna.
Sienna's hair hung flat around her pale, bare face. She kept checking the doors and the marshals. Every few seconds, she looked past the guard at Dante. He never looked back.
The judge read out racketeering, conspiracy, wire fraud, money laundering, and murder in a firm, rough voice. Her sentencing memorandum filled a thick binder.
I had carried every transaction an
