Chapter 20 The Morning After #2
She crossed the room. Took his hands. They were still cold. “You are not a pawn. You are Victor Marchetti. You are the head of your family. And you are going to survive this.”
“How?”
“Because I’m going to make sure of it.”
He looked at her. Really looked at her. And she saw it — the fear. Not for himself. For her. He was afraid of what she was going to do, and he was afraid of what it would cost her.
“Don’t,” he said.
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t sacrifice yourself for me. I’m not worth it.”
“You don’t get to decide that.”
“Isabella — ”
“I am a Marchetti intelligence lead. I have the authority. I have the access. I have the evidence. I can protect you, Victor. I can keep you out of this. But you have to let me do it my way.”
He was quiet for a long moment. Then, so softly she almost didn’t hear it: “What if they take you too?”
“What?”
He lifted his head. His eyes were wet — not crying, but close, the kind of wetness that came from exhaustion and fear and the desperate effort of holding everything together.
“What if protecting me means losing you? What if they come for you, Isabella? What if they strip your badge, revoke your clearance, drag you in front of a grand jury and make you testify against yourself? You think the DOJ cares about loyalty? You think they care about the truth? They’ll bury you.
They’ll bury you the same way they buried Cross, the same way they buried that analyst who flagged the container.
And I won’t be able to stop them. I won’t be able to protect you.
I’ll be standing outside a federal building while they tear you apart, and I won’t be able to do a goddamn thing. ”
She should have been afraid. His words were true — every one of them.
She could see the future he was describing, could see herself in an interrogation room, in front of a committee, on the stand.
She could see the headlines. DOJ Attorney Married to Crime Boss.
Federal Prosecutor Compromised. Rivera Investigation: What Did She Know and When Did She Know It?
But she wasn’t afraid. She was tired. She was furious. She was done.
“Then at least I will have done something that mattered.”
Victor blinked. “What?”
“For once in my career. Something that actually mattered.” She held his gaze.
“Six years, Victor. I’ve built cases against money launderers and tax evaders and mid-level traffickers who pled down to probation.
I’ve filed motions that went nowhere and indictments that got buried and appeals that were denied on technicalities.
I’ve watched the system protect the powerful and punish the powerless, and I’ve told myself I was making a difference, that I was working within the system to change it from the inside.
But I wasn’t changing anything. I was just…
filing paperwork. Writing memos. Pretending that justice was a thing you could achieve with the right font size and the correct margin width. ”
She stepped closer. Put her hand on his chest. Felt his heart beating under her palm.
“This — you, Lucia, your mother, this family — this is the first thing in six years that has actually mattered. The first time I’ve been able to look at what I’m doing and know, without any doubt, that it’s right.
Not legal. Not procedural. Right. And if protecting you costs me my career, my badge, my reputation, every single thing I’ve spent my adult life building — ”
“Then at least I’ll have done something that mattered,” he finished.
She nodded.
He looked at her. She looked at him. And for a long, quiet beat, neither of them spoke. The coffeemaker gurgled. The morning light crept across the floor. The surveillance feeds played on, silent and flickering, documenting a crime that was still unfolding somewhere out in the world.
He reached up. Touched her face. His fingers were cold but his palm was warm, and the contrast made her shiver.
She closed her eyes. Let herself feel it — not just his touch, but everything underneath it.
Trust. Surrender. The terrifying, exhilarating knowledge that she had chosen this man, this life, this moment, and she would choose it again.
“You’re not supposed to be here,” he said.
“Neither are you.”
“I mean it. A federal prosecutor, married to a crime boss, standing in a safe house at dawn, planning to bring down a conspiracy inside her own department. This isn’t a life. This is a novel.”
“Then stop reading ahead. You’ll ruin the ending.”
He kissed her. It was different this time — not desperate, not hungry, not trying to memorize her. Just… present. Just there. Just two people standing in a kitchen at dawn, holding each other, choosing each other.
When he pulled back, his eyes were clearer. Not happy. Not hopeful. But clearer. Like something had shifted inside him. Something she’d said had reached a place that words didn’t usually reach.
“We have to survive what comes next,” he said.
“We will.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No. But I know this: the FBI is going to spin this. They’re going to say you were involved. They’re going to build a case. And I am going to tear that case apart, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not easy. It’s going to be the hardest thing I’ve ever done. But I’ve done hard things before.”
“Name one.”
“I married you.”
He laughed again. This time, it lasted a little longer.
She tilted her head. “Your world has guns.”
“My world has subpoenas. I’m not sure which is more dangerous.”
“Subpoenas don’t kill people.”
“No. But they end careers. And for people like Calloway, that’s worse than dying.
” She looked at him. “Guns kill the body. Subpoenas kill the legacy. The reputation. The thing they spent their whole lives building. Trust me — I’ve seen men walk into a courtroom ready to fight and walk out looking like ghosts. And I didn’t fire a single shot.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“Enjoying what?”