Dialect of Power

Prologue

The first time I heard his voice through my headset, it was like ice down my spine.

I was just the court translator, a ghost in the machine.

But when Don Riccardo Corsica, the most feared man in New York, spoke in that ancient dialect, I was the only one who understood his deadly order: "Protect the translator at all costs."

Five years ago, he saved my life.

Now, his protection felt like a death sentence.

The Ghost in the Machine

The air in the courtroom was cold, sterile, smelling of lemon-scented polish and quiet dread. I adjusted my headset, the leather cushion snug against my ears, and became a vessel for words. My name is Veronica Costa, and I am a ghost. I speak, and another's voice emerges. I listen, and the meaning flows through me, leaving no trace. It's a comfortable anonymity, a shield I've carefully maintained.

Until today.

The case was the People versus Riccardo Corsica. Murder, racketeering, conspiracy. The kind of case that drew media vultures and nervous, shuffling court officers. The air itself seemed to thicken when they brought him in.

Riccardo Corsica.

Don Corsica.

He moved with a predator's stillness, his expensive suit doing little to disguise the raw power coiled beneath. He didn't scan the room like a guilty man; he owned it. His gaze was a physical weight, and when it swept over the gallery, over the jury, over me, I felt my pen still in my hand. His eyes were the colour of a winter storm, a sharp, piercing grey.

I focused on my notepad, on the rhythmic, neutral tones of the initial proceedings. The prosecutor's questions, the defence's objections, my own voice translating it all into smooth, unaccented English for the record. Corsica answered in the same, his voice a low, controlled baritone that vibrated through the headphones. It was calm, reasonable, devoid of emotion.

It was a mask.

The moment came during a brief sidebar, a lull where the judge conferred with the lawyers. Corsica leaned slightly towards his attorney, a man named Moretti whose sweat gleamed under the fluorescent lights. The microphones were live, but the court's attention was elsewhere.

He spoke three words. Not in English. Not in the standard Italian I was prepared for.

It was a dialect. Ancient, guttural, a relic from the hills of Sicily I hadn't heard since my grandmother whispered stories by the fire. The words were like stones dropped into the still pond of my professional detachment.

"Indagala. A fondo."

Investigate her. Thoroughly.

My blood turned to slush. The pen slipped from my numb fingers, clattering onto the wooden desk. The sound was deafening in the hushed room. I fumbled for it, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.

No one else reacted. The judge kept talking. Moretti nodded, scribbling a note. The bailiff stared into the middle distance.

I was the only one. The only one who understood.

My eyes, against my will, were dragged back to him. Riccardo Corsica wasn't looking at his lawyer anymore. He was looking directly at me. Those storm-grey eyes held mine for a fraction of a second, devoid of warmth, devoid of any readable emotion beyond a cold, analytical assessment.

Then he turned away, as if I were nothing. A piece of furniture. A ghost.

But I was a ghost who had just heard her own death warrant.

The cold of the air conditioning seeped through my blouse. The comfortable anonymity I cherished shattered into a million sharp pieces. Every word he had spoken through my headset now felt like a violation. The calm, reasonable tone was a lie.

Beneath it was the real man. The man who gave orders in a dead language. The man who had just marked me.

I forced my breathing to slow. I picked up my pen, my hand trembling only slightly. I had to get out. I had to think.

But his voice, those three jagged words, were already etched into my mind.

They were a key, turning a lock I thought was sealed forever.

And with that turn, a flood of memory broke loose—a dark night, the smell of spilled beer and blood, and the same low voice, speaking the same dialect, saying different words.

"Non appartieni a questo posto. Vattene."

You don't belong here. Go.

Five years ago. The man with the grey eyes who saved my life.

The man in the defendant's chair was the same man.

The gavel rang out, signalling the end of the session. I stood on unsteady legs, gathering my things. The world moved in slow motion. As they led Riccardo Corsica away, his broad back receding, a single, terrifying thought crystallized in my mind.

His protection had just begun. And it felt more dangerous than any threat.