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.
CHAPTER 23
Alessio
Ihad my weapon aimed at the woman's center mass before she'd taken two steps into the safe house.
"Don't move," I said quietly, voice flat and controlled despite the pain radiating through my still-healing chest. "Hands where I can see them."
The woman froze, raising both hands slowly. She looked young—early twenties maybe—with dark hair and those distinctive green eyes that marked her as DeLuca blood. The resemblance to Marco was unmistakable: same sharp cheekbones, same calculating gaze that assessed threats in seconds.
But it was her resemblance to Valentina that made my trigger finger hesitate.
"I'm not armed," she said calmly, too calmly for someone with a gun pointed at her. "I'm not here to hurt anyone. I just need to talk to my sister."
"Your alleged sister," I corrected. "Start explaining. Now."
Valentina stood beside me, one hand protectively over her stomach—sixteen weeks pregnant now, the small bump noticeable under her loose shirt.
"My name is Livia DeLuca," the woman said, meeting Valentina's eyes. "Marco is my father. I have documentation—birth certificate, DNA test results, everything. My mother had an affair with him twenty-three years ago. He paid her to keep quiet, to raise me in secret. I've never met him. Never had a relationship with him. But I saw your trial on the news and I—" Her voice cracked. "I needed to know my sister."
She pulled a manila envelope from her designer handbag and set it on the safe house coffee table.
"Everything's in there. Proof of who I am. I understand if you don't believe me, but I'm telling the truth."
Valentina reached for the envelope, but I caught her wrist gently.
"Let me." I kept the weapon trained on Livia while examining the contents.
Birth certificate: Livia Marie DeLuca, mother listed as Christine Russo, father Marco Antonio DeLuca. DNA test showing 99.97% probability that she and Valentina shared a biological father. Photos of young Marco with a woman who must be Christine. Bank records showing regular payments over two decades, labeled "child support."
It all looked legitimate.
Which made me more suspicious.
"The timing is convenient," I said, not lowering the weapon. "You waited until after Marco's conviction to come forward."
