"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 crackingthrough 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.
