Have I Ever Failed you Capo?

Ricardo’s POV

The next morning, the cell door opens, and I look up to see José, my lawyer, stepping inside. I motion for him to sit across from me at the small table bolted to the floor. The guards step out, giving us privacy, yet we keep our voices low.  

“I don’t know what to do,” I admit. “The walls are closing in. Tell me, José. What the fuck am I supposed to do?”  

José leans forward, resting his elbows on the table. “Ricardo, listen to me carefully. The only way out of this mess is to redirect the blame. Someone needs to take the fall.”  

“Redirect the blame? You want me to pin this on my fucking father-in-law? Are you out of your fuckung mind?”  

José doesn’t flinch at my hushed outburst. He meets my eyes. “Yes. It’s the only move we have. Ricardo, you’re innocent in this, remember? This entire kidnapping and trafficking operation belongs to your father- in- law, Mr. Inzaghi. He’s the one who pulled you into this shitstorm after that deal went wrong and you pissed him off. Those 35 girls in the safe house? That’s HIS doing, not yours.”  

I slam my fist on the table. “No way. I’m not letting him take the fall. Antonella would be devastated.”  

José sighs, leaning closer. “Think for a moment, Capo. If you don’t do this, everything crumbles. They know about the safe house. They’ll find the girls any moment now. Angelo’s already fled, which leaves you holding the bag. But if you point the finger at the real owner of this operation, we can make this go away.”  

I place my hands over my chin, thinking. “What’s your plan?”  

José straightens. “We bribe some of the girls to swear on their lives that they saw Mr. Inzaghi and his men entering and leaving the safe house regularly. Their testimonies will shift the focus away from you.”  

I tilt my head. “And what about the senator’s daughter? What if she says they’re lying?”  

José smirks. “I spoke to Angelo before he fled. The senator’s daughter was blindfolded the entire time. She can’t identify anyone.”  

I sit back, considering his words. It’s a risk, but one that’s starting to sound reasonable. “How much are we talking to bribe the girls?”  

“Most of them come from poor families,” José explains. “They’ll jump at the chance for a payout. Ten thousand dollars each should do it.”  

I calculate quickly. “And how many girls are you planning to bribe?”  

“Fifteen of them,” José says without hesitation.  

I nod, my mind is made up. “Tell Angelo to write you a check for three hundred and forty grand. Bribe all of them. I want no loose ends.”  

José leans back, with a smile on his lips. “Smart move, Capo. Very smart.”  

“And what should I tell the police?” I ask.

“Deny everything,” José says firmly. “Stick to the story that you’re an innocent man being framed by the so-called golden cop. Call him out as a fraud. Undermine his credibility.”  

I smirk. “The golden cop... what a fucking joke.”  

José matches my smirk, as he stands up to leave. Before he walks out, I fix him with a hard look. “Don’t fail me, José.”  

He turns back confidently. “Have I ever failed you, Capo?”  

Hours later, Charles walks into the interrogation room as the door click shut behind him. His golden badge shimmers under the light as he sits across from me.

“Good morning, Ricardo,” Charles says calmly. “Slept well?”

I lean back in my chair, folding my arms. “Well enough, considering I’m being held here for a crime I didn’t commit. You’ve got nothing on me, golden cop.”

“You really think you’re walking away from this one?”

I raise an eyebrow, smirking at him. “You’ve always had a vendetta against me, haven’t you? Tell me, Charles, what’s your endgame here? Fame? A promotion? You bring me in here with no evidence, and yet you parade around like a hero. You’re a fucking fraud, and everyone’s going to see it.”

Charles leans forward. “You think I need evidence to know what kind of monster you are? Thirty-five missing girls, Ricardo, including the senator’s daughter. We’ve traced them back to your safe house.”

I cut him off. “Alleged safe house. You’ve got no proof. No fingerprints, no security footage, no witnesses tying me to anything illegal. Just wild accusations to distract the public from how ineffective you’ve been.”

Charles slams a hand on the table, but I don’t flinch. I see the frustration in his eyes, and it only fuels me.

“You can deny it all you want,” he says. “But your time is up. We’ve got a grand jury hearing in three days. Enjoy your stay.”

He stands abruptly, heading for the door.

“Charles,” I call after him. He pauses but doesn’t turn. “You’ll regret this. The truth always comes out. And when it does, I’ll make sure everyone knows who the real fraud is.”

The door slams shut behind him, and I exhale slowly. José better be right about this plan.

***Grand Jury Hearing 

The courtroom is packed. Rows of reporters and cameras flashing as I walk in with my tailored suit. To them, I look like a defeated man—brought here in cuffs just days ago. Little do they know, the stage is set and the game is already rigged in my favor.  

José sits behind me, his face is calm. He gives a subtle nod, the kind that says everything is under control. I adjust my cufflinks and take my seat at the defendant's table. My lawyer, a man named Giorgio Pellegrini, flips through his notes with a smirk.  

Across the aisle, Charles Gregory is standing, with his eyes boring into mine. He looks like a man on a mission. Too bad his mission is about to fail.  

The prosecutor begins, painting me as a monster: a kidnapper, a trafficker, a menace to society. They begin by describing the safehouse, the evidence they allegedly found there, and the testimony they’d gathered. All damning me.

Then the witnesses arrive.

One by one, the girls take the stand. And each of them swear that I am innocent.  

“I saw Mr. Inzaghi there,” one girl testifies with a shaky voice. “He was the one giving orders. Mr. Borrelli was never mentioned. Looking at the situation now…Mr. Borrelli actually seems like he doesn’t know what is going on.”  

Charles’ jaw tightens. He exchanges whispers with the prosecutor, but there is nothing they can do. Another girl comes up, her story is almost identical.  

“Mr. Inzaghi was there almost every day,” she says. “I don’t think Mr. Borrelli can do anything illegal. He just… looks like he was caught in the middle.”  

Caught in the middle. That is the narrative José crafts, and it is working like a charm.  

The prosecutor’s frustration is evident. They press the girls, trying to poke holes in their stories, but they stand firm. Their families need the money, and they know better than to cross me.  

The senator’s daughter is called, and I hold my breath for a moment.  

“Miss Harper,” the prosecutor begins, “can you identify who was responsible for your captivity?”  

She hesitates, glancing at Charles, then at me. “I was blindfolded the whole time,” she said softly. “But I heard voices… I remember someone calling the man in charge ‘Mr. Inzaghi.’”  

Charles slams his hand on the table, and the judge shoots him a glare.

The prosecutor finally rests, then my lawyer rises. He speaks with calm and confidence.

“Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, what you’ve heard today is a collection of unproven accusations, fueled by the overzealous ambitions of one man—Detective Charles Gregory.” He gestures towards Charles.

“This entire case is built on speculation and indirect evidence. Not one shred of concrete proof links my client, Ricardo Borrelli, to these wicked crimes. Meanwhile, we’ve heard multiple witnesses implicate someone else entirely—Mr. Inzaghi. I ask you, does this sound like justice? Or does it sound like a desperate attempt to tarnish an innocent man’s reputation?”  

He ends with a satisfying nod, and I lean back in my chair, smirking. The jury doesn’t deliberate long.  

“Not guilty.”  

I like the words that I hear: not guilty. Charles storms out of the courtroom with fury. I stood, shaking hands with Giorgio and José, my smirk is now a wide smile.

As I leave the courtroom, cameras flash as reporters shout questions. I pause, turning to face them.  

“This is what happens when the truth comes out,” I say. “Justice prevails. To those who doubted me—better luck next time. #Goldencopisafraud.”  

I climb into my car, once inside, José says from the passenger seat. “Capo, what’s next?”  

I light a cigarette as I stare out the window, watching the camera’s flash at me.

“Now?” I say, exhaling slowly. “Now, we remind everyone why you don’t mess with Ricardo Borrelli. We will first start with the bitch that sold me out.”