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: Forthe 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.
