Enjoy. :)

***

by in a blur, my anxiety steadily rising the closer it gets to Thursday. I try to get myself to remain calm as I go through the days, focusing on my job and my clients and my art, but as I'm sure you can guess, it doesn't work so well.

I know I'm off because I don't even make cupcakes on Monday; I'm so jittery and restless that I spend a couple hours making chocolate tarts, completely from scratch. They are so much work and they are fabulous, and I leave a few by Nero's door, with a note that says "More croissants would be appreciated."

Despite this, I desperately hope to avoid running into him. I'm not sure my nerves could take it, and I worry that seeing him would make me spill something stupid about the case and my dad and my brother. I'm sure he'll find out eventually.

I worry for the day he does, because he's definitely involved in it. My family's success mean his failure, and the opposite is just as true.

Something tells me that Nero and whoever else he works with are very used to getting their way, and that if it means messing with defense lawyers and prosecutors and judges and officers and the evidence to get it done, then they will, no matter what. The law is just an inconvenience to them, and they know so many sneaky, scary ways to get around it.

This does little to comfort me, though at least I understand exactly how and why my life is going to shit.

I might just be the unluckiest person in the world, and it'll be a miracle if I can get out of this all in one piece. Shit.

I am so screwed.

•§•

, like clockwork, a warm plate of croissants sits outside my door, ready for me to eat them. I have one for breakfast before I head out, reading the carefully scripted, laconic note that he leaves with them, and smiling in spite of myself. He's so damn charming, that man. It's frustrating, and I know it's my fault for continuing to lavish my delicious, unhealthy baked goods on him.

Why I still do this in spite of everything I have no idea, but it makes his flirtatious words my own wrong-doing. How could he resist being nice to a woman who bakes him amazing, heart-stopping desserts?

Rosalina,

You're going to make me fat.

Until then, thank you dolcezza

You are my favourite neighbour

I hear his voice, low and rough and completely mesmerizing, forming the words as I read them. I chuckle—as if I'm not his only neighbour, that bastard.

Deep in my chest I have a nagging feeling, one of guilt. I should not be doing this. I should not continue to be friendly and civil to the evil criminal who lives next door, because he doesn't deserve it.

He doesn't deserve my cupcakes and tarts and whatever else I have tucked up my sleeve, and I should stop giving them to him, because he kills people and assaults people and deals with drugs and trafficking and all kinds of other horrendous crimes.

He's a bad person, and yet I can't make myself stop being nice to him.

Maybe it's a character flaw. I tell myself that it's just because I am good and kind, but deep down I know it has to do not with me but with Nero. He's disarming, and I can't stop myself from going along with our peaceful charade, despite everything.

Focussing on my painting for the fundraiser, I procrastinate thinking about Thursday for as long as I can. The trial creates a nervous puddle, thick and dense, at the bottom of my gut, from where it only continues to gnaw at me. At lunch, I force myself to calm down, splashing water on my face in the bathroom and pinching my cheeks, which have gone deathly pale.

The wonder of a guilty conscious—it's astounding. "The Tell-Tail Heart", always a favourite, suddenly makes clear, lucid sense to me. I use Poe's horrific short story to convince myself to calm the hell down, and I try to make myself believe that I've done nothing wrong. I don't believe it, though, not really. Do you?

The feeling of an oppressive, consuming unease that comes with hiding what I know is almost too overwhelming, and I know that my innocent, responsible conscience is doing its job well.

On the drive there, I manage to calm the roar into a dull discomfort, blasting all of my favourite Throwback Thursday tracks. Briefly, my mind flashes to that first Friday in my apartment, and I banish those ideas as quickly as they come, trying instead to enjoy my Supertramp and the Police and Hall & Oates.

I walk into the courthouse that I'm familiar with only from fighting traffic tickets, worried as hell that somehow, people will know I have secret, criminal knowledge of the murder trial at hand.

When I make my way into the courtroom at around ten to five, Daniel, my dad, and another lawyer, maybe a little younger than my brother, are already at the defense table talking quietly and seriously about something. Awkwardly, I find a seat on the defense side, at the edge of the fourth row. Daniel spots me and sends me a big grin and a wave. But he starts conversing again immediately, leaving me alone and nervous out of my skin.

Looking around, I notice that I'm not the only one here for the arraignment. In front of me is a small group of big, burly men in suits who chat hurriedly with one another. If I had to guess, they're part of the same criminal organization as the defendant, and they must be here to show their support.

I bite my lip, knowing that these men in front of me, all clad in black, are dangerous and violent. They know that the suspect is innocent, and I know that they're not afraid of breaking the law to prove it.

Across the aisle, an older woman sits with her teenage daughter, both angry and grieving, tissues at their faces, their eyes red and hard. A man, younger than me, holds them and whispers small comforts, his assurances useless yet necessary. These must be the family of the deceased, inconsolable, ready some kind of justice.

Behind them is another group of large, gruff men. I imagine that they are from the same organization as Nero—in conflict with the defendant's family across the aisle. Family. If I got all of my knowledge about the mafia from Al Pacino, I would call these two warring mobs "families". Except to me, family implies Sunday night dinners and vacations and coffee and Christmas, not guns and murder and bloody, violent retribution.

Hearing whispers of Italian all around me, I am very, very aware of just how dangerous these people filling the room are. On one side, the group in front of me is defending their own from wrongful prosecution. On the other, Nero's thugs wants to make sure that the blame is placed on someone other than themselves, who I know are the real culprits.

Not that I could tell anyone, right?

My stomach is tied in knots, anxious and frightened as I sit here, alone. It makes me sick knowing that I'm in the middle of all of it, that I'm undeniably linked to the entire mess, though no one except me or Nero has any idea.

I try occupying myself with my cellphone, texting Shauna about useless, mundane things. My foot taps worriedly against the wooden floors, and I check the time, willing it to go faster. 4:56.

Behind me, I barely register the door opening, a couple pairs of footsteps making their way to the row across the aisle from me, just in time for the arraignment to start. I pay little attention to the newcomers, until, when I turn, my blood runs cold in my veins, my heart skipping a beat.

There, a few feet away, sit Angelo and Nero, the latter as dark and brooding as always. I turn my head sharply to the front, praying that he won't notice me. But I can feel his gaze, hot and angry, on my neck, surprised and appalled to see me when he has expressly told me to stay away from this case. Closing my eyes, I know that there is no way I'm getting out of this in one piece. Shit. I am so dead.

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