Chapter 13 #2
Her weight settled against me—slight, trembling, too light because she'd barely eaten in days. I pulled her closer, one arm banded across her shoulders, the other cupping the back of her head, fingers sliding into her hair.
She smelled like stress sweat and the floral shampoo from this morning, and something underneath that was purely her. That scent I'd memorized in the motel room, in my penthouse, in every moment we'd stolen between running and fighting and surviving.
Home. She smelled like home.
"I've got you," I murmured against her temple, lips pressing there, then her forehead, then the crown of her head. Small kisses, grounding both of us. "You're done. No more today."
Her fingers fisted in my shirt, clutching like I might disappear. "They want two more hours. Rivera said—"
"I don't care what Rivera said." I pulled back just enough to see her face, cupped her jaw with both hands, thumbs stroking her cheekbones. "You're done, amore.
You've given them enough for today."
"But the case—"
"The case can wait until tomorrow. You need rest. Food. Sleep." I pressed my forehead to hers, felt her shaky exhale ghost across my lips. "You need me to take care of you for a few hours. Let me."
Agent Morris appeared in the hallway, opened her mouth to protest.
I shot her a look that could have cut glass. "We're leaving. Now."
She hesitated, reading the murder in my eyes if she tried to stop us. "Tomorrow, then. Same time."
I didn't answer. Just guided Valentina toward the exit, supporting most of her weight because her legs weren't quite steady.
In the car, she leaned her head against the window, eyes closed, hands still trembling in her lap.
I wanted to tell her she was the bravest person I'd ever known. That watching her survive that interrogation had nearly destroyed me. That every tear, every broken word, every moment of her reliving that nightmare had felt like someone was slowly flaying me alive.
That I loved her so much, it terrified me.
But words felt useless against the magnitude of what she'd just endured.
So I reached over, laced my fingers through hers, brought her knuckles to my lips, and just held on.
She squeezed back—weak but there. A silent conversation in that grip.
I'm here. You're not alone. We're surviving this together.
I drove us back to the safe house and carried her inside when her legs gave out completely in the driveway. She didn't protest, just wrapped her arms around my neck and buried her face against my shoulder.
"You were incredible," I finally said, lowering her carefully onto the couch. "You know that, right? What you did in there—"
"I just want to sleep for a week." Her voice was raw, scraped hollow.
I pulled a blanket around her shoulders, settled beside her, and gathered her back into my arms. "Then sleep. I'll be right here."
"Tomorrow?" she whispered, already drifting.
"Tomorrow," I confirmed quietly, pressing another kiss to her hair. "But tonight, you rest.
Her breathing evened out within minutes, exhaustion finally claiming her.
I held her while she slept, watching shadows lengthen across the room, feeling her heartbeat steady against mine.
Four more days of this. Four more days of watching her relive hell with nothing to offer but the arms she fell into after.
But she was doing it. For us. For the future she believed we could have.
The least I could do was be there to catch her when she fell.
Day two was worse.
Through the mirrored glass, I watched Rivera pull up photos on the screen—Valentina and Richard at charity galas, the engagement announcement, wedding venue tours. Her face in every image perfectly composed, smiling, playing the role of happy fiancée.
"Walk us through your relationship with Senator Caldwell," Rivera said. "When did you first suspect something was wrong?"
Valentina's hands clenched in her lap. I saw her throat work, saw her fighting for composure.
"I didn't suspect anything for months," she said quietly. "I thought… I thought he loved me. That my father had chosen well. That I was lucky."
"Lucky how?"
"Richard was handsome, successful, respected. He treated me well in public. Made me feel valued." Her voice went hollow. "I was so naive. I actually believed I was going to have a good marriage."
My hands fisted against my thighs. She'd never told me this part—that she'd actually believed in the lie, had hope for that future.
Rivera clicked to another photo. Valentina in her wedding dress during the final fitting. Radiant. Doomed.
"That was taken three days before you discovered the truth," Rivera said. "Tell us about that moment. The exact moment you realized."
Valentina's breathing went shallow. I leaned forward, every muscle tense, wanting to burst through that glass and stop this.
"I saw the email," she began, voice shaking now. "Miguel Cordero confirming weapons shipments. Two hundred AR-15 rifles. Forty kilograms of Semtex." She closed her eyes. "I remember thinking it had to be a mistake. That there was some explanation. Because the man I was going to marry couldn't be—"
Her voice broke completely.
The prosecutor waited. Professional. Patient. Brutal.
"He couldn't be running weapons for cartels," Valentina finished, tears streaming now. "Couldn't be using me as cover for crimes that were getting people killed. But he was. And my father was helping him. And I was just… I was just the pretty trophy that made them both look legitimate."
She was sobbing now, shoulders shaking, years of trauma pouring out in that sterile room while strangers took notes.
I couldn't take it anymore.
I stood, ready to end this session myself, but Morris stepped into the doorway.
"She needs to get this out," Morris said quietly. "This is part of her healing, not just testimony."
"She's falling apart—"
"She's processing. Let her."
Through the glass, Rivera was offering Valentina tissues, water, and a break. She shook her head, wiped her eyes with trembling hands.
"I'm okay," she said, voice raw. "Let's continue."
They kept her another two hours. Each answer scraped her rawer than the last.
When they finally released her, she was hollowed out in a way that frightened me.
I got her to the car, back to the safe house, into the scalding shower she needed before she could stand to be touched.
Then I held her on the couch while she shook through the aftershocks, and I said nothing, because there was nothing to say that would undo what she'd relived. .
"I kept seeing his face," she whispered in to my chest. "Richard's face when I said I'd marry him. He looked so happy. And I believed it was real." She turned to look at me. "How could I have been so stupid?"
"You weren't stupid. You were trusting. There's a difference."
"I should have seen the signs—"
"They were professionals at deception." I cupped her face, made her meet my eyes. "You survived, Valentina. You saw the truth, and you ran. That's not stupid. That's brave."
Fresh tears spilled. "I don't feel brave. I feel broken."
"You're not broken. You're healing." I kissed her forehead, her closed eyes, her trembling mouth. "And I'm here. Every step. I'm not going anywhere."
When the trembling had finally stopped and she lay curled against me in the dark, I asked the question I'd been turning over all day.
"Why are you doing this?" I kept my voice low. "Testifying. Reliving everything. We could have just run. Disappear."
She pulled back to look at me. "Because running means always looking over our shoulders. Always waiting for Marco to find us. Always afraid." Her hand found mine, interlaced our fingers. "I'm doing this so we can actually have a future. A real one. Where our children don't grow up in hiding."
Our children.
The words hit me like a physical blow.
"You think about that?" I asked carefully. "Our future. Kids."
"Every day." She managed a watery smile. "Especially when I'm sitting in that room destroying my father. I think about the life we're building. The family we could have. The peace we're fighting for." Her eyes held mine. "That's what gets me through it. Not revenge. You."
I kissed her then, slow and deep and full of everything I couldn't say.
When we broke apart, I pressed my forehead to hers. "Three more days of testimony. Then Marco goes to trial. Then we're free."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
The next three days followed the same brutal pattern.
Morning testimony. Valentina reliving trauma while I watched from behind that glass. Afternoon collapse. Evening recovery in my arms.
But each night, she told me something about our imagined future.
"I want a house with a garden," she said on the third night. "Somewhere I can grow tomatoes and herbs. Teach our kids where food comes from."
"We'll have that," I promised, pressing a kiss to her temple.
The next evening, after another brutal session recounting financial transactions, she whispered, "I want Sunday dinners. Real ones, like you told me about. Your Nonna's gravy simmering all day. Family gathered around the table."
"We'll have that too." My hand found hers in the darkness, fingers interlacing.
On the final day—after five days of testimony that had stripped her raw—she settled into my arms with exhausted finality. "I want boring. I want normal. I want to worry about soccer practice and parent-teacher conferences instead of who's trying to kill us."
I held her closer. "That's exactly what we'll have. I swear it."
By week's end, the case was airtight.
Prosecutors walked us through it—RICO violations, murder, weapons trafficking. "Life sentences, plural," Rivera said. "No parole. No deals. Marco DeLuca will die in prison."
Valentina's hand found mine under the table, squeezed once.
That night under Arizona stars, she asked: "When this is over, where do we go?"
"Anywhere," I said. "Small town. Quiet life. Somewhere no one knows our names."
"As long as it's with you."
I kissed her forehead, let myself believe—for the first time in weeks—that we might actually survive this.
The next morning, I left early.
Domenico needed to meet fifteen minutes away—urgent discussion about additional security arrangements before the trial.
"Three more personnel," he said as I climbed into his armored SUV. "Best I've got. Ex-military, combat experienced."
"Where?"
"Arriving tonight. I want them integrated into the FBI rotation within twenty-four hours."
We drove toward a diner on the outskirts of Scottsdale. Reviewed guard rotations. Discussed sight lines and response protocols.
The plates—did you get them swapped?"
Domenico nodded. "Second night. But I ran the traffic camera data from our drive in." His jaw tightened. "The Accord's original Pennsylvania tags got flagged by a plate reader outside Tucson. Automated system—feeds into law enforcement databases."
My stomach dropped. "Marco has access to those databases."
"Half the corrupt cops on the eastern seaboard owe him favors. If someone ran a query on out-of-state plates entering Arizona—"
My phone exploded before he could finish.
Alerts from every security system fired simultaneously. Messages flooding in.
Then a call from my team leader, Dario.
"Safe house breach!" he shouted. Gunfire cracked through the connection. "Multiple hostiles. Heavy weapons. They came through—"
Explosion. Static.
"Dario!"
"—Sofia's down. They're grabbing Valentina. Armored van. We can't—"
Valentina screamed in the background. Terror and rage in one sound.
A van engine roared.
The line went dead.
"GO!" I roared at Domenico.
He floored it. The SUV rocketed forward.
I pulled up security feeds on my phone. Watched the nightmare unfold in choppy footage.
Six men. Military precision. Smoke grenades and flashbangs. They'd neutralized FBI agents in seconds.
Sofia had tried to fight. She lay motionless in the hallway.
They'd dragged Valentina out in under ninety seconds.
Professional. Planned. Executed perfectly.
"How far?" I demanded.
"Ten minutes."
Might as well be a thousand miles.
I watched the van disappear from the security perimeter.
Tracked its direction on GPS until the signal vanished.
Marco had her.
And I'd left her unprotected.