Chapter 10
Valentina
The gun didn't waver. My father's hand remained steady, professional. Not the hand that had held mine during thunderstorms or taught me to ride a bike. This was the hand of a killer.
I'd known it intellectually. Understood what the evidence meant, what Alessio had told me. But seeing it—watching Marco DeLuca point a weapon at his own daughter without hesitation—shattered something inside me.
"Dad." The word escaped before I could stop it. Soft. Pleading. Pathetic.
His expression didn't change. "Don't. You lost the right to call me that when you ran."
Alessio shifted, angling himself between us. His hand moved toward his concealed weapon, slow and deliberate.
"I wouldn't." Marco's aim adjusted to Alessio's head. "You're fast, Valestri. But not faster than a bullet."
The study felt smaller suddenly. Claustrophobic. I was trapped. Behind my father, I glimpsed movement in the hallway. Security, closing in. We'd walked straight into this, and I'd been naive enough to think we'd outsmarted him.
Alessio's hands rose slowly, palms out—but he'd shifted closer to Marco's desk in the process, positioning himself between the safe and the door.
"You're predictable," Marco continued, voice almost conversational. "Just like your mother. Sofia thought she was clever, too,—that she could expose me and run. Look where that got her."
Ice flooded my veins. "The car crash."
"Brake line." He shrugged. "Quick, merciful. More than she deserved after betraying me."
My stomach turned. For eighteen years, I'd mourned her. Visited her grave. Believed the lie. And he'd murdered her. Murdered the woman he'd claimed to love.
"You're wondering if I ever loved you," Marco said, reading my expression. "I did. Still do, in my way. But love doesn't change necessity. You became a liability the moment you saw that email."
Alessio's muscles tensed. I could feel violence coiling in him, see the calculation in his eyes. Measuring angles, counting opponents, assessing survival odds.
"The files," I said, stalling. "We have everything. Banking records, shipment manifests, communications with—"
Marco laughed. Actually laughed.
"Did you really think I wouldn't monitor my own security?" He nodded toward the USB drive in Alessio's hand. "Go ahead. Check it."
Alessio's jaw tightened. He checked the drive on his phone. His face went cold. Blank.
"What?" The word came out sharper than I intended.
"Blank." His voice was flat. "Everything we copied—corrupted files. Fabricated evidence. Against us."
My heart stopped.
"I've been three steps ahead this entire time," Marco said.
"The real files are already secure. What you downloaded?
Banking records showing Valentina embezzling from Caldwell's campaign.
Communications between you and known criminals.
Receipts for the assassination attempt. Everything needed to guarantee you both die in federal prison. "
The room spun. We hadn't outsmarted him. We'd played directly into his hands.
"Actually," Marco corrected himself, "you won't see prison. That would be messy, public. No, tonight, you'll have a tragic accident during your mental breakdown. Security cameras will show Alessio Valestri kidnapping you, forcing you here. When you tried to escape, things got violent."
He lifted his free hand. Snapped his fingers.
Men materialized from the hallway shadows—too many to count in the sudden rush of movement. Tactical gear, weapons already drawn and aimed. The study filled with armed men, blocking every exit, every escape route I'd memorized.
We were surrounded. Completely. Professionally.
Marco had been expecting us all along.
Alessio moved, but they were faster. Bodies slammed into him from three directions. I screamed as they drove him to the ground, fists and boots connecting with brutal efficiency.
"Stop!" I lunged forward.
Marco caught my arm. His grip was iron, familiar. How many times had he held my hand like this? Walking me to school, teaching me to dance, and presenting me at events.
"Don't make this harder," he said quietly.
Alessio fought back, savage and relentless. He took one man down with an elbow to the throat, another with a vicious headbutt. But there were too many. They overwhelmed him through sheer numbers, forcing him to his knees. Blood streamed from his split lip, his temple.
One of the guards pressed a gun to the back of his head.
"No!" The word tore from my throat.
"Then let's talk." Marco released me and stepped back. Composed, reasonable. Like we were discussing business, not murder. "You have sixty seconds to decide your future, Valentina."
My breath came in short gasps. Alessio's eyes found mine, dark and desperate. Trying to tell me something, warn me.
"Option one," Marco continued. "You come home.
Get the psychiatric help you clearly need.
We'll adjust your medication and ensure you're stable.
Then you marry Senator Caldwell as originally planned.
We spin this entire incident as a breakdown—stress, paranoia, delusions.
Society will sympathize. The wedding gets postponed, not canceled.
Six months from now, you walk down that aisle. "
"And if I refuse?"
"You'll have a tragic accident right here.
Gunshot wound, self-inflicted, in your unstable state.
Security footage will show Alessio forcing you into his car, bringing you here against your will.
He'll take the fall for your murder—I have witnesses ready to testify, evidence planted, everything needed.
The war between our families will be blamed entirely on him. "
He checked his watch.
"Forty seconds."
I looked at Alessio. Blood dripped from his chin and stained his shirt. But his gaze remained steady, fierce. He gave the smallest shake of his head.
Don't.
Marco noticed. "Valiant. Romantic, even. But pointless. You can't save him, Valentina. You can only choose who survives."
"Thirty seconds."
My mind raced. My memory was trying to recall exits, weapons, and possibilities. The windows were reinforced glass, three stories above the grounds. The door was blocked by armed men. Alessio was pinned, bleeding. I was unarmed and untrained compared to professionals.
We were going to die here.
"I need—" My voice cracked. "I need a minute to think."
"No." Marco's expression hardened. "Twenty seconds. Decide."
Alessio's lips moved. I couldn't hear him over my pounding heart, but I could read the shape. Don't.
Tears blurred my vision. This couldn't be how it ended. Not after everything, not after finding someone who saw me, truly saw me. Not after choosing love over safety.
"Ten seconds."
I opened my mouth. Didn't know what would come out, what choice I'd make.
The windows exploded.
Glass shattered inward as tactical ropes dropped from the roof. Bodies swung through, weapons already firing. Smoke grenades detonated, filling the study with choking gray clouds.
Marco's security scattered, returning fire. The guard holding Alessio went down, a bullet through his throat. Alessio moved instantly, ripping the gun from the fallen man's grip and dropping another guard with two shots below the vest line.
Someone grabbed my arm. I spun, fist already swinging.
"Easy!" Domenico's voice was familiar and welcome. "We're leaving. Now."
He shoved a gun into my hands and pulled me toward the hallway. Through the smoke, I glimpsed more of Alessio's men rappelling through the shattered frames.
Gunfire erupted behind us. Domenico fired without looking, covering our retreat. We burst into the hallway where more of Alessio's team had secured positions. Professional, coordinated. They must have been moving into place the whole time Marco was talking.
"Alessio!" I screamed over the chaos.
He appeared from the smoke like an avenging demon. Blood streaked his face, murder in his eyes. He grabbed my hand, and we ran.
The DeLuca estate descended into war. Guests screamed in the ballroom below. Security scrambled, trying to contain the situation. We crashed through servants' passages, down hidden stairs, my photographic memory guiding us toward the garage.
Behind us, Marco's voice echoed. "Lock down the estate! No one leaves!"
Too late.
We burst into the garage. Dozens of expensive cars gleamed under fluorescent lights. Alessio made straight for a black Bugatti Chiron—Marco's pride and joy.
"Seriously?" Domenico panted.
"He tried to kill her." Alessio grabbed the key fob from the mounted rack and fired the ignition. "I'm taking his fucking car."
Petty. Satisfying. Perfect.
I dove into the passenger seat. Domenico and three other men piled into vehicles beside us. The garage door was already closing, heavy steel descending.
Alessio floored it.
The Bugatti screamed forward, engine roaring. We shot under the closing door with inches to spare, scraping paint from the roof. Then we were out, tearing down the long driveway toward the main road.
Gunfire sparked off the trunk. I twisted in my seat, saw security vehicles pursuing. Domenico's car rammed one, sending it spinning into the gardens. Another swerved to avoid the wreck and crashed into ornamental hedges.
We hit the main road doing ninety, tires shrieking. Alessio drove like he fought—aggressive, precise, utterly in control. He wove through evening traffic, ran red lights, and took corners that made my stomach drop.
Gradually, the pursuing vehicles fell back. Alessio's men blocked intersections and created chaos. By the time we reached the highway, we'd lost them completely.
Only then did my body start shaking.
Adrenaline drained away, leaving me trembling violently. My hands wouldn't steady. My breath came too fast, too shallow. The gun felt impossibly heavy in my lap.
"Valentina." Alessio's hand found mine. Warm, solid, real. "Breathe. You're safe."
Safe. The word felt foreign.