Chapter 21
Alessio
The FBI's protective detail wasn't enough.
I knew it the moment we arrived at the Montana safe house. Agent Morris tried to convince me their security protocols were "military-grade" and "impenetrable."
The same protocols that had let Marco walk out of maximum security custody after killing three guards just three days ago.
So I took matters into my own hands.
I called Domenico on an encrypted line at 2 a.m., voice low so I wouldn't wake Valentina in the next room. We'd been in Montana less than seventy-two hours, but already the walls felt like they were closing in.
"I need your people. Not FBI. Not anyone on any official payroll. Private contractors loyal to me personally. Men who won't hesitate, won't follow bureaucratic rules, won't fail."
"How many?"
"However many it takes to keep her alive."
Silence on the line, then: "I'll have a team there by morning. Former military, completely off-books. They answer only to you."
"Good."
By dawn, six men had arrived—silent, professional, lethal. They established perimeter security that the FBI hadn't bothered with, swept for surveillance devices the FBI had missed, and found three.
Three. Marco's people had been watching us for days.
Agent Morris was furious when she discovered my private security team. She threatened to pull FBI protection entirely. I told her to go ahead—her protection had already failed.
She didn't pull it. Probably realized how bad it would look if we died after she abandoned us.
But the tension in the safe house was thick enough to choke on.
Valentina's morning sickness had been brutal—constant nausea, exhaustion that left her barely able to function, emotional swings that had her crying over nothing.
And the stress was making everything worse.
I found her one morning dry-heaving in the bathroom, tears streaming down her face, one hand protectively over her stomach.
"They're going to be okay," I said quietly, kneeling beside her with a cool washcloth. "The babies are strong. Like their mother."
"What if the stress—" Her voice broke. "What if I lose them because I can't stop being terrified every second of every day?"
"You won't. We won't let that happen."
But I wasn't sure I believed it.
The first attempt came four days later.
Sniper. Positioned in the tree line with a clear shot at the kitchen window where Valentina made tea every morning at 8 a.m.
One of Domenico's men spotted the glint of the scope, tackled Valentina to the floor half a second before the bullet shattered the window. Glass rained down where she'd been standing, the round embedding in the far wall.
Six inches to the left and she'd be dead.
Valentina didn't scream. Just lay on the floor surrounded by glass, both hands over her stomach, breathing hard.
"Get her to the panic room," I ordered, already moving toward the door with my weapon drawn. "Now."
My men hunted the sniper through the woods, but he'd already vanished—professional, prepared, knew the terrain.
Marco's people were getting closer.
The second attempt came a week later. Twelve weeks pregnant now, Valentina was starting to show—a small bump visible under loose clothing, undeniable proof of the lives growing inside her.
I was in the office coordinating security rotations when I heard her voice from the living room.
"Alessio! Someone sent flowers!"
My blood turned to ice.
We weren't expecting deliveries. No one outside the FBI knew this location.
Instinct took over. Weapon already in hand, crossing the safe house in seconds.
I found Valentina in the living room holding a beautiful arrangement—white lilies and roses in a crystal vase, expensive and elegant. The card lay open on the coffee table: For the mother-to-be. Wishing you and your babies health and happiness.
"Don't touch it," I said sharply.
She froze, eyes widening. "What—"
"Put it down. Slowly. Step back."
One of Domenico's men appeared with the portable scanner and swept the arrangement with professional efficiency. His face went white.
"Bomb. C-4, maybe half a pound. Remote detonator. Someone's watching, waiting for the right moment to—"
"Everyone out!" I grabbed Valentina, pulled her toward the panic room. "Now!"
We had maybe seconds. Maybe less.
Behind us, the team evacuated in controlled chaos—grabbing equipment, abandoning everything else. I shoved Valentina into the panic room, slammed the door, and activated the locks.
Through the reinforced walls, I heard the explosion.
Massive. Devastating. The entire living room was obliterated by fire and shrapnel. Windows blew outward, walls cracked, and the ceiling partially collapsed.
Twenty-foot radius, the scanner had said.
If Valentina had been holding those flowers when it detonated, she and our babies would have been vaporized.
The thought made my knees weak.
When the smoke cleared, and we emerged from the panic room, the safe house was destroyed. Burn marks on walls. Furniture in splinters. The crystal vase became shrapnel embedded in drywall.
Valentina stood in the doorway, both hands on her stomach, staring at the destruction with blank eyes.
"We need to leave," I said quietly. "Now. This location is compromised."
She nodded mechanically.
We evacuated within the hour and moved to a new safe house across the state.
Two attempts in eleven days. Each one supposedly more secure than the last. Each one proving inadequate.
The third attempt was poison in the groceries—ricin in the coffee grounds, undetectable until Domenico's team tested everything.
Three attempts in two weeks.
Each one closer than the last.
I found Valentina that night sitting in the dark, staring at nothing, both hands on her stomach.
"This is never going to end, is it?" Her voice was hollow, defeated. "Our children will grow up looking over their shoulders, never safe. Always running. Always afraid."
I sat beside her, pulled her against my chest. "No. It ends. One way or another, it ends."
"How? Marco won't stop. He'll hunt us until we're dead or he is."
"Then we make sure it's him."
She pulled back, studied my face. "What does that mean?"
I'd been wrestling with it for days. The offer Domenico had made quietly, carefully, during our last encrypted call.
"Domenico knows a contractor. Very good, very discreet. Could handle Marco permanently. Make it look like natural causes or an accident. Completely deniable. No connection to us."
Understanding dawned in her eyes. "You're talking about assassination."
"I'm talking about ending the threat permanently so our children can live without fear."
"By becoming murderers?"
"By protecting our family."
She was quiet for a long time, one hand absently rubbing her stomach where our twins grew.
Then: "No."
"Valentina—"
"No." Her voice was firm now, stronger. "You said it yourself weeks ago—we're better than that. We do this the legal way. Testify, put him away forever, then disappear into witness protection. We don't become the monsters we're fighting."
"The legal way nearly got you killed twice in eleven days."
"Then we get better security. Better protection. But we don't murder my father, no matter how much he deserves it." She met my eyes. "Because the moment we do, we become exactly what he always was. And I won't let him turn us into that."
I wanted to argue. Wanted to point out that her principles might get her killed, might get our babies killed.
But she was right.
We were better than that.
Had to be.
"Okay," I said finally. "We do it your way. Legal. By the book."
"Promise me."
"I promise, principessa."
I called Domenico that night, told him thanks but no. We'd handle Marco the right way.
He sighed. "It's your funeral, brother. Literally."
Maybe. But at least we'd die with our souls intact.
Marco made the choice for us.
It happened the following week—so fast, I'm still not sure how he managed it.
It was 3 p.m. on a Tuesday. Valentina was napping—exhausted from another sleepless night and morning sickness that wouldn't quit. I was in the office coordinating with Domenico's team about additional security measures.
Morris's FBI detail had been pulled to the perimeter twenty minutes earlier—orders from a superior about a credible threat to the north access road. A diversion, I realized later. By then, it was too late.
Then the alarms started screaming.
"Breach!" One of my men shouted through comms. "Four-man tactical team approaching—FBI credentials checking out—wait, something's wrong—Martinez is letting them through the checkpoint—fuck, Martinez is with them—"
Gunfire erupted downstairs. Two heavy thuds—bodies hitting the floor in quick succession, the wet sound of dead weight. Martinez. The FBI agent we'd trusted for three weeks. Marco's man all along.
I was already moving before conscious thought, weapon drawn, heading for Valentina.
Found her stumbling out of the bedroom, disoriented from sleep, one hand on her stomach.
"Alessio? What's—"
"Panic room. Now."
I half-carried her down the hall, punched in the code, and shoved her inside the reinforced safe room. She stumbled and caught herself against the wall.
"Don't open this door for anyone but me. Understand?"
"Alessio—"
"Promise me!"
"I promise."
I slammed the door, activated the electromagnetic locks, and heard them engage with heavy clicks.
She was safe. Pregnant with our twins, terrified but safe behind three inches of reinforced steel.
Now I just had to keep Marco away from that door.
I found him in the main hallway, FBI tactical vest spattered with blood from the two guards he'd already killed. He had a gun, a knife, and the kind of desperate fury that made men dangerously unpredictable.
Our eyes met across twenty feet of hallway.
"Valestri." His voice was rough, controlled despite the blood. "You took something that belongs to me."
"She was never yours. She's a person, not property."
"She's my daughter. My blood. Mine to protect or destroy as I see fit."
"Not anymore."
He smiled without warmth. "Then I guess we settle this the old way."
He raised his weapon.
I dove behind a column as bullets chewed through drywall, returned fire, and caught him in the shoulder. He grunted, stumbled back, and kept shooting.
We moved through the safe house like ghosts, both of us bleeding, both of us hunting, months of tension finally exploding into violence.
I caught him in the living room. He caught me with a knife across the ribs. We crashed through furniture, destroying everything, fighting with the desperation of men who knew only one of us was walking away.
I finally got him down—knee on his chest, gun to his head.
I could end it. Right here. Pull the trigger, eliminate the threat permanently.
But Valentina's voice echoed in my head: We're better than that.
I hesitated.
That hesitation cost me everything.
Marco twisted, threw me off with desperate strength, and scrambled toward the panic room control panel.
No.
I lunged after him, but he was already there, punching codes into the keypad with shaking, bloody hands.
"You should have killed me when you had the chance," he gasped, grinning through blood. "You think Martinez didn't give me every code in this building before I put a bullet in him? I've been buying federal agents since before you were born."
The panic room door mechanisms began to disengage with a mechanical hiss.
Horror flooded through me. Valentina was in there. Carrying our children. Terrified. Defenseless.
"If I'm dying," Marco said, raising his gun toward the opening door, "she dies with me."
Everything slowed down.
The door was sliding open. Valentina's terrified face appeared in the gap. Marco's gun rose, his finger tightening on the trigger.
Our babies. Innocent. Defenseless. Growing inside the woman I loved.
I had no choice.
I threw myself between Marco and the door just as he fired.
The impact was like being hit by a truck—white-hot agony exploding through my side, just below my arm, the bullet tearing through muscle and stealing breath, stealing strength.
I went down hard, tasted blood, and saw Valentina's face above me as the door fully opened.
She screamed my name.
Then chaos—Morris's team finally arriving, too late, always too late. Gunfire. Shouting. Marco was being dragged away, subdued, and secured.
It didn't matter. None of it mattered.
Valentina dropped beside me, hands pressing against the gunshot wound, blood soaking through her fingers.
"Stay with me," she was saying, crying, voice breaking. "Please stay with me. The babies need you. I need you."
I tried to speak but couldn't. Tried to tell her I loved her, that she was safe. That was all that mattered.
Medical teams rushed in and started working, but everything was fading. Sounds became distant. Vision dimming.
The last thing I saw was Valentina's face.
Last thought before darkness took me: I love you, principessa. Keep our babies safe.
Then nothing.