Dialect of Power Chapter 9

The Unwilling Ally

The morning after the blue van, the world felt different. The air was thinner, the colors less vibrant. I had crossed a line, and there was no going back. I was an accomplice now, however passive. The knowledge sat in my stomach like a stone.

I went through the motions of getting ready for court, my movements robotic. The encrypted phone was back in my inner pocket, its weight both a comfort and a curse. The situation has been handled. The words played on a loop in my mind, a chilling lullaby.

In the courtroom, the atmosphere was electric. Something had shifted. Riccardo Corsica sat with the same imposing stillness, but there was a new, sharp edge to his calm. A predator who had just eliminated a rival and was surveying his domain. His gaze swept over me as I took my seat, and for the first time, it wasn't just assessment or warning. It was… acknowledgment. A flicker of something that might have been respect. It made my skin crawl.

His lawyer, Moretti, was a mess. His hands shook as he shuffled papers. Sweat gleamed on his forehead despite the cool air. He kept shooting nervous glances towards the back of the room, where the man in the cheap suit—Salvatore’s man—had been the day before. The seat was empty.

Handled.

The proceedings began. The prosecutor, sensing blood in the water, went for the jugular, pressing Corsica on financial records, on shell companies.

And then, during a tense exchange, Corsica did it again.

He leaned back, steepling his fingers. The prosecutor was mid-sentence. The judge leaned forward, listening intently.

Corsica’s eyes met mine for a fraction of a second. Then his gaze dropped to my hands on the notepad. His own fingers, resting on the table, tapped once, twice. Then he made a subtle, brushing motion with his thumb, as if flicking away a piece of lint.

My breath hitched. The tapping: At-ten… The brush: …zione.

Attenzione. Attention.

It wasn't a general warning. It was an instruction. He was pointing me at something.

My eyes darted around the room, my translator's mind racing, trying to decode the scene. What was I supposed to see? Gio was tense, his hand hovering near his jacket. The jury looked bored. The prosecutor…

The prosecutor was holding a document. A witness list. She was arguing for its admission.

And then I saw it. A name, halfway down the list, highlighted in yellow. A name I knew. Alberto Rossi. He was a small-time bookie, a known associate of the Corsica family. A weak link. The FBI’s patsy.

Corsica wasn't just telling me to pay attention. He was telling me that was the point of attack. Rossi was the key. He was the one Salvatore was likely pressuring to flip, to testify against Corsica. The internal war was being fought with legal documents and witness testimony.

This was more than observation. This was strategic intelligence. He was using me, my position, my access, to see the battlefield from a privileged angle. He was making me his unwilling strategist.

I felt a surge of nausea. I wanted to look away, to pretend I hadn't understood. But I had. The connection was made. The pipeline was open.

I focused on the witness list, committing the name, the placement, everything to memory. I was no longer just a seismograph; I was a radar, and he was directing my scan.

The moment passed. The judge sustained an objection, and the list was set aside for the moment. But the damage was done. I was complicit.

Later, during a recess, I stood in the hallway, trying to steady my breathing. Marco found me.

"Veronica, you look pale," he said, his voice low with concern. "Are you sure you're okay? This case is getting ugly. There are rumors… of internal strife in the Corsica family. It's getting bloody."

I looked at him, his honest, worried face, and felt like the worst kind of traitor. He was offering me a lifeline, and I was secretly working for the other side.

"I'm fine, Marco. Just tired," I whispered, the lie tasting like bile.

He studied my face, his detective's eyes missing nothing. "I need you to be careful. And I need you to think about my offer. We can protect you."

Can you? I thought, the image of the blue van seared into my mind. Can you really?

Before I could answer, Riccardo Corsica was led past us, back into the courtroom. He didn't look at me. But as he passed, his shoulder brushed lightly against Marco's.

It was a subtle, seemingly accidental contact. But it wasn't. It was a territorial marker. A silent declaration.

Corsica disappeared through the doors. Marco stared after him, a frown on his face, unconsciously rubbing his arm where Corsica had touched him.

I stood between them, the invisible battlefield. One man wanted to save me. The other owned me.

And I had just proven to my owner that I could be a very useful asset indeed.