Chapter 16
Valentina
The armored SUV had been driving for maybe fifteen minutes when Agent Simpson finally spoke.
We'd left the crash site behind—left Alessio behind, loaded into a separate vehicle while I watched helplessly through reinforced glass. A dark partition separated us from the driver—standard federal transport, I assumed. Private. Secure.
I sat in the back seat, no cuffs but no freedom either, throat raw from screaming his name.
Agent Simpson sat beside me—her dark hair in a professional bun, kind eyes, sympathetic smile.
"You must be thirsty."
She offered me a bottle of water with genuine concern. Sealed. She cracked the cap for me with a helpful twist.
I was thirsty. My throat felt like sandpaper from screaming Alessio's name, from breathing smoke and fear.
I took the bottle. Drank deeply, gratefully.
Halfway through, the world tilted.
I looked up and met Simpson's eyes. Saw the guilt there—the resignation.
Too late."I'm sorry," she whispered. Not sorry enough to have stopped.
The bottle slipped from my fingers. Darkness crept in at the edges, pulling me under.
Drugged. Marco has people everywhere. Even in the FBI—
Darkness swallowed everything.
Softness woke me.
Silk sheets against my skin. Down pillow cradling my head. The scent of lavender sachets and expensive furniture polish that had defined my childhood—French lavender from Provence, the same scent for twenty-five years.
Home.
My eyes opened to pale afternoon light filtering through sheer curtains—cream with delicate embroidered flowers. The antique vanity where I'd learned to apply makeup.
My childhood bedroom at the DeLuca estate—the Arizona property, not the Boston one—preserved exactly as I'd remembered it.
I tried to sit up.
Couldn't.
Panic sliced through the fog. My wrists—zip-tied to the bedposts, thick plastic cutting into already raw skin.
I was still wearing what I'd had on at the safe house—soft pants, loose shirt, the loungewear I'd thrown on that morning. But someone had laid clean clothes on the chair beside the bed. Jeans. A sweater. Like they expected me to dress for my own murder.
The thought of hands on me while I was unconscious—even just moving me, positioning me—made my skin crawl.
How long was I out? Who touched me?
I pulled violently against the restraints, needing to escape, needing to know what had happened in the hours I'd lost.
Agent Simpson. The water. Marco bought someone inside the FBI.
Late afternoon light slanted through the windows. Four, maybe five o'clock. My mouth tasted like chemicals and cotton. My muscles were weak, slightly trembling.
Alessio doesn't know where I am. Thinks I'm in FBI custody. Safe.
The thought made my chest tighten until I couldn't breathe.
I pulled against the restraints again. The bedposts were solid mahogany—expensive, unmovable.
My body felt wrong. Not just the drug hangover—something else. A persistent queasiness that had been building for days, maybe weeks. I'd been ignoring it, blaming stress and fear and constant adrenaline.
But lying there in my childhood bed, feeling the nausea roll through me in waves, I couldn't ignore it anymore.
Something was different.
Something had changed.
The thought had just formed when the door opened.
Marco DeLuca entered like he owned the room. Because he did.
Distinguished silver hair perfectly styled. Expensive charcoal suit tailored to his trim frame—Tom Ford, probably. Italian leather shoes polished to a mirror shine. The successful businessman mask he'd worn so well—the same one I'd believed for twenty-six years.
Now, the mask was gone entirely.
His expression held only cold calculation as he closed the door with a soft click.
"Valentina." My name came out almost gentle. "You're awake. Good."
He settled into the reading chair by my window, crossing his legs with casual ease.
"You have people in the FBI." My voice came out hoarse.
"I have people everywhere, dearest daughter. Agent Simpson has been on my payroll for three years. Excellent investment."
He said it like discussing a successful stock purchase.
"Did you really think federal custody would protect you? I built an empire by being thorough, Valentina. By having contingencies for every contingency."
I stared at him, trying to reconcile this monster with the father who'd read me bedtime stories. Who'd taught me to ride a bike. Who'd cried at my college graduation.
All lies. Everything had been lies.
"How's my mother?" The question burst out.
"Your mother's still alive. Still alive in the hospital under guard." His expression didn't change. "For now."
The implication hung in the air. I didn't need him to spell it out.
He's going to kill her, too.
His expression hardened. "You know too much," Marco said, standing abruptly. "That memory of yours—always so proud of it. Now, it's your death sentence. Every conversation, every document, every transaction. You're a walking liability."
He pulled a prescription bottle from his pocket. Rattled it.
"Oxycodone. Prescribed for my knee surgery. Perfectly legitimate." He set it on my nightstand. "Unstable daughter. Tragic overdose. I discovered you too late."
The clinical nature of it made my vision blur.
"Caldwell won't be talking either," he added. "Cardiac arrest. Stress of incarceration."
Marco paused with his hand on the doorknob. "I'll be back in an hour. Either way, you'll be dead by morning."
The lock engaged with a terrible snick.
Alone. Waiting to be murdered by my own father.
No. Not like this.
What would Alessio do?
My brain showed the knot configuration—the angle, the weave, the slight gap on my left wrist where they'd rushed.
Dislocate your thumb, Alessio's voice echoed. Hurts like hell, but it works.
I braced my left thumb against the bedpost. Positioned it at the angle he'd shown me.
I pushed.
Pain flared from my hand and up my arm. I pushed harder.
Something popped—wet, grinding, nauseating. The thumb bent unnaturally, sliding out of the socket.
Agony exploded up my arm, white-hot and consuming. I bit my lip, swallowing the scream.
Don't scream. Guards outside.
Tears streamed down my face, but I worked through it. Folded my thumb flat. The zip tie bit deeper.
Then pulled.
Slowly. Steadily.
My hand slipped free.
I lay gasping, cradling my damaged hand. The thumb jutted at a wrong angle, already swelling.
I couldn't leave it like this. Couldn't function with a useless hand.
Alessio had shown me this, too. Reset it yourself if you have to. Don't think. Just do it.
I gripped the dislocated thumb with my right hand. Positioned it. Took a breath and then pulled and pushed simultaneously.
The joint popped back into place with a grinding crunch that nearly made me vomit. Fresh agony whited out my vision. I stuffed my fist against my mouth, biting down on my knuckles to muffle the sob.
For a long moment, I just lay there, shaking, waiting for the pain to recede to something manageable.
The thumb was back in place but badly swollen, throbbing with every heartbeat. I could move it—barely. It would have to be enough.
The right hand went faster—using my freed left to work the zip tie despite the agony.
Both hands free.
I sat up slowly, head swimming from lingering drugs. Changed into the clothes they'd left—jeans that fit looser than I remembered, dark sweater, sneakers. Practical and mobile.
His study. Phone. Evidence. Anything useful.
The servants' stairs were narrow, enclosed, and designed to let staff move unseen. They were perfect for what I needed to do.
I slipped into the hallway, moving on silent feet. I found the hidden panel and descended into darkness, my injured hand cradled against my chest, the other trailing the wall for balance.
First floor revealed an empty kitchen—staff likely dismissed.
The study across the main hall was close, only twenty feet of open marble.
I watched and timed the guard patrol.
I ran and made it inside, closing the door softly.
The room held the same mahogany desk and leather chairs. Books lining the walls. The scent of old paper and whiskey.
I searched desperately with my good hand. Landline—dead. Computer—password protected. Drawers—locked.
Then I saw papers on his desk. They looked important.
My memory engaged automatically. Contract documents. Names. Bank accounts.
And there—a hit order.
TARGET: Alessio Valestri
LOCATION: Federal Building, downtown Phoenix
TIMELINE: Upon federal processing.
METHOD: Long-range, clean exit
PAYMENT: $500,000
NOTE: Contingency activated upon target entering federal custody. Sniper positioned.
He'd had this planned. A contingency for if Alessio were ever arrested. And now Alessio was being transported to federal processing, walking straight into Marco's trap.
Tears blurred the words.
They're killing him. And he has no idea.
I looked at the desk clock: 5:15 p.m.
How much time do I have?
Then I saw it—an old house phone built into the wall panel near the bookshelves. Different circuit. Probably forgotten.
I lifted the receiver.
Thank God—a dial tone. Relief crashed through me.
I dialed 911, my swollen thumb screaming with every button.
"911, what's your emergency?"
"Hostage situation. DeLuca estate, 847 Riverside Drive. Marco DeLuca is trying to kill me. He has guards, weapons. And there's a hit on Alessio Valestri at the federal building at 6 p.m. Please—you have to warn them. Send help."
"Ma'am, stay calm. Officers are being dispatched—"
Heavy footsteps in the hall. Definitely more than one.
"I have to go."
I hung up, looking desperately around me.
The panic room. Marco had installed it behind the bookshelf years ago—one of his paranoid security measures I'd rolled my eyes at.
Now, it might save my life.
I found the hidden latch and pulled. The shelf swung open on silent hinges.
It was a small fortified room. Steel walls. Supplies. Camera system showing the entire estate.
And a computer terminal with a webcam.
I slipped inside, and the lock engaged automatically.
I was safe. For now.
The monitors flickered to life, showing feeds from across the estate. I could see everything—the study, hallways, and grounds.
Marco entered the study with four guards. Fury twisted his face when he saw the empty room, the phone off the hook.
"Find her! Check every room. Now!"
Guards scattered.
Marco approached the bookshelf slowly. "Valentina. Come out. We can still do this the easy way."
I didn't respond.
"Fine." He turned to a guard. "Get me a cutting torch. We'll breach it."
The computer. I could reach people. Warn them.
I pulled up the browser with shaking hands. Logged into Instagram—my old account, the one with thousands of followers from my life as Marco DeLuca's perfect daughter.
I started a livestream.
The camera caught my face—bruised, tear-streaked, desperate. Good. Let them see what he'd done.
"My name is Valentina DeLuca. If anyone is watching this, please listen. My father, Marco DeLuca, is trying to kill me. He's been running criminal operations through his real estate business—money laundering, weapons deals—in partnership with Senator Richard Caldwell."
Thousands of viewers now. The number kept climbing, faster than I could track.
Marco's voice came through the camera audio, sharp and vicious. "Valentina, turn that off. Now."
"You see?" I kept my eyes on the camera, on everyone who might be watching. "That's my father. Marco DeLuca. Real estate developer. Pillar of the community. Respected businessman. And a murderer who's killed to protect his empire."
The viewer count was a blur now—tens of thousands, maybe more, people sharing and resharing as the video spread.
"If anyone sees this, please send help. Please don't let him get away with this."
I watched Marco's carefully constructed persona crumble on camera for the world to see. His mask was shattering. His empire was burning.
Then the screen went black.
The lights died. Complete darkness in the panic room.
He'd cut the power.
In the sudden silence, I heard his voice through the steel door—cold, controlled, terrifying in its complete calm.
"Clever girl. Just like your mother. But it won't save you. And it won't save Valestri. He'll be dead before they can warn him, and you'll follow. This ends tonight, Valentina. One way or another, this ends tonight."
Silence.
Then, there was a sound that made my blood freeze—the hiss and roar of the cutting torch igniting.
Blue flame glowed visibly through the gap where he'd already started on the door. Sparks showering in the darkness like deadly fireworks.
He wasn't waiting anymore.
He wasn't negotiating.
He was coming through that door.
And I had nowhere left to run.