Zayden’s POV
The courthouse smells like old wood and broken promises.
I've been inside these walls twice now—once for the arraignment after they arrested me again, hauled in on a warrant for violating bail conditions by leaving the state during the safe house relocation.
Forty-eight hours in a holding cell before Landon argued me out. The second time is today.
Federal District Court, Southern District of New York. Mahogany everywhere, marble floors that echo footsteps like drumbeats, and enough security to invade a small country.
Dante Caruso sits at the defense table in a custom suit that probably costs more than most people's cars, looking relaxed as someone discussing the weather instead of facing federal racketeering charges.
His lawyer—Marcus Rothstein, legendary defense attorney whose client list reads like a crime family reunion—stands to cross-examine me with the confidence of someone who's already won.
"Mr. Wolfe." Rothstein's smile is surgical. "You testified that my client threatened you, held a gun to your wife's head and ordered illegal financial transactions."
"Yes."
"And we're supposed to believe this testimony from a man who's lied consistently for over a decade?"
My jaw tightens. "I've been honest about—"
"Have you?" He approaches the witness stand like a predator closing distance. "Let's review your history of honesty, shall we? You paid off at least five women to hide your children. Correct?"
"Yes. I did.”
"You lied to your wife about those children for the entirety of your relationship?"
"Yes, that is—correct.”
"You facilitated money laundering through your father's business operations?"
"I inherited those operations without knowledge."
"But you continued profiting from them for years after discovering the truth. Yes or no, Mr. Wolfe?"
The prosecutor starts to object. The judge waves it down.
"Yes," I say through gritted teeth.
Rothstein turns to the jury like he's presenting evidence at a murder trial.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this man—who's lied to romantic partners, lied to his wife, lied about his business dealings—now asks you to believe his testimony about my client."
He pulls out documents. Contracts I'd drafted to pay women off. NDAs signed under my name. Bank transfers that look damning without context.
"Six children, Mr. Wolfe. Six. That you paid women to hide. Including," He consults his notes. "Rebecca Morrison, who received 1.8 million. Sofia Delgado, 2.3 million. Shall I continue?"
"Those were private settlements."
"Those were cover-ups. Just like this entire case is a cover-up for your own criminal activity."
Rothstein's voice rises.
"You inherited a money laundering operation. Instead of reporting it to authorities, you profited from it for years. Then when my client requested legitimate business transactions, you panicked and ran to the FBI to save yourself."
"That's not what happened."
"Isn't it? You wore a wire to entrap my client. Recorded conversations without consent. Manufactured evidence through federal coercion."
He's playing to the jury now, full performance mode.
"And now you sit here, asking these good people to believe your word over my client's—when your entire life is built on deception."
The prosecutor objects. Sustained. But the damage is done.
I can see it in the jury's faces. Doubt creeping in like frost across glass.
Jocelyn takes the stand next.
She's wearing navy blue—professional, understated, designed to look trustworthy. But Rothstein tears into her with the same surgical precision he used on me.
"Mrs. Wolfe, you hired a private investigator to dig into your husband's past. Correct?"
"Yes. I did.” She wasted no time answering.
"And that investigation led you to discover his pattern of paying women to disappear?"
"Yes. It did.”
"Yet you stayed with him. Moved into his home. Allowed your daughter to bond with his illegitimate son." Rothstein makes it sound sordid. "Why?"
Jocelyn's hands clench in her lap. "Because Eli needed stability—"
"Or because you wanted access to his wealth?"
Rothstein cuts her off.
"You were struggling financially before meeting Mr. Wolfe. Your daughter needed expensive medical treatment. Then suddenly you're living in a penthouse, wearing designer clothes, benefiting from the very money laundering operation you now claim to oppose."
"I didn't know about the money laundering."
"But you knew about the lies. The hidden children. The pattern of deception. Yet you stayed. Stayed married to him anyway. Profited from his crimes while maintaining plausible deniability."
He turns to the jury.
"Ladies and gentlemen, Mrs. Wolfe presents herself as a victim. But the evidence shows something different—a woman who knowingly benefited from criminal enterprise, then cooperated with federal authorities only when it served her interests."
The prosecutor fights back during the redirect. Plays the wire recordings—Dante explicitly threatening to kill Jocelyn, ordering the money laundering, admitting to years of criminal partnership with my father.
The audio is damning, clear, unambiguous.
But Rothstein's planted doubt deep enough that even clear evidence feels questionable.
***
Deliberations take three days.
We wait in a federal holding room—me, Jocelyn, armed marshals, and lawyers who won't promise us anything except that we testified truthfully.
"They're taking too long," Jocelyn says on day two. "If it was clear-cut, they'd have decided already."
"Or they're being thorough," Agent Chen offers. But even she sounds uncertain.
Day three, the jury finally returns.
We're escorted into the courtroom under heavy security. Dante sits composed as ever, like verdicts are inconveniences rather than life-altering events.
The jury foreman stands. "In the matter of the United States versus Dante Caruso, on the charge of racketeering, we find the defendant guilty."
Relief floods through me like ice water.
"On the charge of money laundering, guilty. On the charge of witness intimidation, guilty. On the charge of attempted murder of a federal witness, guilty."
‘Guilty. Guilty. Guilty.’
Dante's expression doesn't change. He sits there like the verdict is temporary, like his lawyers will fix this with appeals and motions.
But when the judge reads sentencing—twenty-five years to life, federal maximum security, no possibility of parole for fifteen years—something flickers behind his eyes.
Rage. Pure, concentrated hatred aimed directly at us.
"Mr. Caruso," the judge says, "you ran a criminal enterprise that corrupted legitimate business, threatened witnesses, and attempted to murder a cooperating informant. This court finds you deserve every year of your sentence."
Marshals move to take him into custody. Dante stands slowly, adjusting his cuffs like he's heading to a business meeting instead of federal prison.
As they lead him past our table, he stops. Leans close enough to whisper.
"This isn't over."
Then he's gone, led away in handcuffs while we sit in the courtroom trying to process that we actually won.
The media is waiting outside. Cameras flash like strobe lights, reporters shout questions that blur together into noise.
"Mr. Wolfe! How do you respond to allegations you profited from money laundering?"
"Mrs. Wolfe! Is it true you stayed with your husband for financial gain?"
"Did you know about the six illegitimate children?"
"Are you planning to divorce now that the trial is over?"
Agent Chen tries to run interference. "No comment. Please step back."
But the questions keep coming, shouted from faces I don't recognize, recorded by cameras that will broadcast this everywhere.
We make it to the SUV. Door closes on the chaos, but even inside I can hear them.
The next morning, headlines confirm our worst fears.
LIARS WIN: Caruso Convicted Despite Wolfe Couple's Credibility Issues
Frauds in Federal Court: How Two Liars Took Down a Mobster
Wolfe Trial Verdict: Justice Served, But At What Cost to Truth?
The articles are brutal. Dissecting every lie I ever told, every woman I paid off, every choice that led here. Questioning whether Jocelyn married me for money. Suggesting Dante's conviction came despite our testimony, not because of it.
Public opinion is worse. Social media tears us apart with the efficiency of piranhas.
"They're both criminals who got immunity for snitching."
"She knew about the money laundering and stayed for the lifestyle."
"Six secret kids and she still married him? Gold digger confirmed."
"They deserve each other. Both liars."
Jocelyn reads her phone with an expression like she's watching her reputation burn in real-time.
"We won," she says quietly. "Dante's going to prison for twenty-five years. We're safe, the kids are safe."
"But?"
"But everyone thinks we're frauds." She sets down the phone. "The judge believed us, the jury believed us enough to convict. But the rest of the world…"
"Thinks we're liars who got lucky." I finish. She nods.
We sit in silence, watching news coverage that treats our victory like a pyrrhic disaster. Dante Caruso, convicted criminal, somehow coming out looking more honorable than the witnesses who took him down.
"Was it worth it?" Jocelyn asks.
I look at her, really look—exhausted, traumatized, publicly vilified for doing the right thing.
"Ask me again when the kids are older. When Eli isn't having nightmares. When Mia doesn't flinch at loud noises." I take her hand. "When we can actually live without armed guards and safe houses."
"That could be years."
"Then I'll answer in years."