Chapter 22 #2
"There's nothing more to say. I'm not mentally ill. I'm not delusional. I'm just a woman telling the truth about what her father did." I looked directly at Marco. "And he knows every word I've said is true."
Marco's expression cracked, just for a second. Fury. Hatred. Fear.
The jury saw it.
In that moment, I knew we'd won.
The verdict came after five days of deliberation.
I sat in the courtroom gallery, Sofia beside me, both of us holding our breath as the jury foreman stood.
"We, the jury, find the defendant, Marco DeLuca, guilty on all counts."
The courtroom erupted. Reporters shouted while Marco's remaining supporters protested. The judge's gavel banged for order.
But I felt oddly numb.
Guilty. All counts. Racketeering. Conspiracy. Murder. Weapons trafficking. Money laundering.
The sentencing came three days later: Life in prison without possibility of parole.
Marco would die in a cage.
He'd never touch me again. Never threaten my children. Never hurt anyone else.
We'd won.
So, why did I feel so empty?
I visited Marco one final time before his transfer to the federal supermax prison in Colorado, ADX Florence—the most secure federal prison in America.
His communications would be monitored, restricted, and screened. But not eliminated. Men with money and connections always found ways to reach the outside world, even from supermax. The FBI had been clear about that.
They brought him to a small room in shackles, the orange jumpsuit now replaced with the grey one he'd wear for the rest of his life. He'd aged ten years in the past few months—silver hair now completely white, distinguished features haggard, all veneer of respectability stripped away.
This was the real Marco DeLuca. Criminal. Murderer. Monster.
He sat across from me, separated by thick plexiglass, and picked up the phone.
I picked up mine.
"Valentina." His voice was hoarse. "You destroyed everything. Our family name, our legacy, everything I built—"
"You destroyed it yourself," I cut him off, voice steady. "I just told the truth. You killed people, Marco. You terrorized your own daughter. You tried to murder the man I love and the children I'm carrying. You did this to yourself."
"I was protecting you—"
"You were controlling me. There's a difference."
He stared at me, jaw working, searching for some angle, some manipulation that would work.
There wasn't one.
"Are you happy now?" he finally asked, bitter. "Living with that criminal, carrying his bastards, throwing away everything I gave you?"
I smiled. First genuine smile I'd given him in months.
"Yes. I am happy. I'm building a real family now, Marco. One based on love instead of fear. Trust instead of control. Something you'll never understand."
I stood, placed the phone back on the hook without waiting for his response.
Walked away from my father forever.
I didn't look back.
Ten weeks after the surgery—the trial finally behind us—we sat together in the FBI safe house discussing our options.
Alessio was recovering well—moving around the safe house carefully, the side wound healing cleanly. The doctors had cleared him for discharge weeks ago, but we'd stayed in FBI protective custody during the trial. Now, with Marco convicted and sentenced, we finally had space to breathe. To plan.
To decide what came next.
"Domenico's offering legitimate businesses we could run," Alessio said, scrolling through messages on his phone. "Import/export company in Seattle, vineyard in Napa, bookstore chain in Portland."
"A bookstore." I smiled, remembering our conversation under the Arizona stars. "You actually found us a bookstore."
"I promised you normal and boring. Bookstores are very boring."
"I love it."
"There's also this." He pulled up photos of a small coastal town in Oregon. "Population three thousand. Good schools. Safe. Quiet. House on the market—three bedrooms, ocean views, needs work, but it's perfect."
I studied the photos. White house with blue shutters. Large backyard. Wrap-around porch. Everything we'd dreamed about.
"It's beautiful," I whispered.
His hand settled on my growing belly, thumb stroking gently. The bump was impossible to miss now—round and firm, the twins making their presence known with every kick and roll.
"They'll be safe there," he murmured.
"We could disappear there. Raise our children somewhere Marco's reach can't extend. Become someone new. A boring couple who run a bookstore and live quietly."
"What about witness protection? The FBI's offer?"
"I don't trust them anymore. They couldn't protect us before; I don't trust them to protect us now." His hand found mine. "But this—Domenico's resources, new identities, cash to start over—this I trust. We do it ourselves."
I looked at the photos of that perfect white house, imagined our twins playing in that backyard, growing up safe and loved and free.
"Okay," I said finally. "Let's do it. Let's disappear."
Alessio pulled me closer, careful of his healing side. His lips pressed to my temple first, then my forehead, then finally my mouth—soft and full of promise.
"Two more days, and we're out of here. New life. New beginning."
"Can't wait."
A week later, we were packing to leave the FBI safe house for good.
Alessio moved around our temporary bedroom with careful efficiency, folding clothes with one hand while the other pressed unconsciously against his healing side. Still tender, still limited, but so much stronger than even a month ago.
Freedom. Finally.
A knock at the safe house door made us both freeze.
I was closest to the security monitor, saw the young woman standing on the porch—early twenties, dark hair, nervous energy radiating from every line of her body. She kept glancing over her shoulder like someone might be following.
"We're not expecting anyone," I said quietly.
Alessio was already moving, weapon drawn from the shoulder holster he'd started wearing the moment the FBI cleared him for self-defense. He checked the monitor, frowned. "You recognize her?"
"Never seen her before."
Our assigned FBI agent—Rodriguez, stationed in the safe house living room—appeared in the doorway. "Want me to send her away?"
The woman on the monitor pressed the doorbell again and leaned closer to the camera. "Please," she said, voice cracking through the speaker. "My name is Livia DeLuca. I'm Valentina's half-sister. Marco is—was—my father, too. I need to speak with her. It's urgent. Please."
The world tilted.
Half-sister.
I didn't have a sister, whether full or half.
I looked at Alessio, saw my own confusion reflected in his face.
"Livia?" I repeated. "I've never heard that name before. Marco never mentioned another daughter."
"Could be a trap," Alessio said, weapon still ready, eyes on the monitor.
"She looks terrified," I observed. And she did—the way she kept checking behind her, the trembling hands, the desperate hope in her expression when she'd looked at the camera. "Not like someone here to hurt us."
Agent Rodriguez spoke into her radio, coordinating with the perimeter team. "No one followed her. Came alone in a taxi, paid cash. We've been monitoring her for the past ten minutes."
Alessio's jaw tightened. He was calculating, assessing, weighing risks the way he always did.
His free hand found mine, squeezed in reassurance. I squeezed back—our silent language.
A decision was made with just a glance between us without words.
"Let her in," I said. "But search her first. And keep weapons ready."
Rodriguez nodded, disappeared to coordinate.
Thirty seconds later, after a thorough pat-down and weapons check, the safe house door opened.
And a woman whose features mirrored my father's walked into the room.