"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.
