The courtroom is heavy with smoke and perfume and judgment. Reporters sit in the back pretending not to listen too closely, pens scratching headlines they probably wrote last night. The jury’s shifting in their seats like they’ve already made up their minds. And Salvatore is right beside you.

He hasn’t said a word since you sat down, but his hand is resting against your thigh beneath the table, his thumb brushing small, steady circles into your dress like he’s reminding you he’s still here. Still breathing. Still your husband. His jaw is tight. He hasn’t looked at the jury once. Only you.

You can smell the cologne he wore on your wedding day. You feel it every time he leans closer to whisper something without moving his lips. His fingers graze yours just long enough to make your heart twist. There’s a cut near his knuckle you hadn’t noticed this morning when you helped him with his tie. He’s not wearing his wedding ring today, he gave it to your son before walking into the courthouse.

The judge is speaking, but it’s background noise now, dull and distant. Your eyes flicker to the gallery, empty spaces where family used to sit, strangers now taking up their places. You hear your name. And then..

“Would the defendant’s wife please take the stand?”

Sal’s grip tightens around your hand, just once. His eyes finally meet yours. Sharp. Dark. Burning.

You rise slowly, legs stiff from sitting too long. He watches you the entire way up, his stare steady, unmoving. You feel it on your back like a shield, or a prayer. You don’t look back. You already know exactly what you’d see.

The lawyer begins to speak. The questions start.

And Salvatore doesn’t look away.