Bianca Moretti stood beside the bridal makeup table, gripping electric clippers in her hand.

Four months later, Courtroom 402 of the New York State Supreme Criminal Division was frozen in silence.

The high-ceilinged room smelled of polished mahogany, old legal leather, and the heavy, unyielding finality of the law.

Sitting at the defense table in the bright orange canvas jumpsuit of a state prisoner was Bianca Moretti.

Her four-thousand-dollar blowout had been replaced by an unwashed, greasy knot of matted dark hair pinned haphazardly behind her ears with plastic state-issue bobby pins. She had lost twenty-five pounds; her cheekbones jutted out sharply beneath hollow, sunken eyes; and her manicured acrylic nails had been cut down to the raw pink beds under correctional hygiene protocols.

Beside her sat Victor and Lorenzo Moretti, both shackled to their chairs with steel belly chains, their expensive lawyers whispering frantically over mountains of rejected appellate motions.

The jury foreperson, a retired pediatric nurse from Queens, stood up from the front row of the jury box.

“In the matter of the People of the State of New York versus Bianca Moretti,” Judge Harold Vance intoned from the high oak bench. “On Count One: Attempted First-Degree Manslaughter of a Dependent Minor... how do you find?”

“Guilty,” the foreperson announced, her voice ringing off the stone walls like an iron bell.

Bianca’s breath hitched, her head dropping back as a choked, dry sob tore from her throat.

“On Count Two: Aggravated Assault with a Deadly Weapon and Chemical Instrument... Guilty.”

“On Count Three: First-Degree Grand Larceny Exceeding Fifty Million Dollars... Guilty.”

“On Count Four: Tampering with Physical Evidence... Guilty.”

“On Count Five: Conspiracy to Commit Corporate Securities Fraud... Guilty on all counts, Your Honor.”

Judge Vance nodded once, his expression carved from dark granite.

He did not look at the defense table. He adjusted his half-moon reading glasses and looked directly at the court reporter.

“The jury having returned unanimous verdicts of guilt on all felony indictments,” Judge Vance stated, his gravelly voice carrying the terrifying weight of absolute authority. “The court proceeds directly to statutory sentencing under the Violent Predator and Vulnerable Victim Enhancements.”

The judge looked down at Bianca.

“Bianca Moretti,” the judge said, his tone dripping with cold, unmitigated disgust. “In thirty-four years on this criminal bench, I have rarely encountered an exhibition of narcissistic depravity and calculating malice as revolting as that presented in this record. You looked at a motherless three-year-old child and saw not an innocent life, but an inconvenient financial obstacle to be drugged, deformed, and institutionalized for your family’s luxury.”

Bianca wept into her shackled hands, her shoulders convulsing with pathetic, self-pitying gasps.

“On Count One and Count Two,” Judge Vance proclaimed, raising his heavy rosewood gavel, “you are hereby sentenced to twenty-eight years in the Department of Corrections at the Bedford Hills Maximum Security Facility, to be served without the possibility of parole for the first twenty-two years.”

CRACK.

The sound of the gavel striking the oak block was like a rifle shot.

“As to Victor Moretti: eighteen years at Green Haven Correctional Facility. As to Lorenzo Moretti: fourteen years at Sullivan High-Security Facility.”

CRACK.

“Furthermore,” the judge added, his gaze sweeping across the defense table, “under the provisions of the Civil Wrongful Tort Restitution Act, this court orders the immediate, total liquidation of all real property, corporate equity, foreign trust holdings, and personal luxury assets held under the Moretti name.

The Moretti estate, the Mediterranean shipping vessels, the luxury penthouses, and the family investment portfolio—valued at one hundred and eighty million dollars—are hereby seized and transferred into an irrevocable, court-supervised educational and medical endowment established solely for the protection of abused and medically compromised children, to be managed under the permanent trusteeship of Rosalie Kent.”

Bianca let out a piercing shriek of pure, impotent rage, jumping from her wooden chair, her steel chains rattling violently against the table as she lunged toward the gallery railing where Alessandro sat.

“You destroyed us!” Bianca screamed, spit flying from her cracked lips as two burly female bailiffs caught her by the arms, forcing her down. “You planned this! You used that peasant nanny to frame me! I should have finished that brat when I had the chance! I should have—”

A bailiff’s hand clamped firmly across her mouth, dragging her limp, thrashing body through the heavy steel holding door at the side of the room.

The latch clicked shut.

The silence that returned to the courtroom was absolute.

Alessandro stood up from the gallery bench.

He didn't look at the empty defense table. He didn't look at the press cameras clicking furiously behind the wooden barrier.

He turned to Rosalie, who sat beside him wearing an elegant navy wool coat, holding his hand.