"I don't know." I looked back at the motel. "I thought I'd feel something. But I just feel… empty."
"That's okay. You don't owe him feelings." He pulled me against his side. "He's gone,principessa. He can't hurt you anymore. Can't hurt our babies. It's over."
Over. The word felt unfinished. I'd been building toward confrontation, final words, closure. Instead, he'd just died. And I'd arrived too late to say anything.
Tears finally came—not for Marco, but for everything I'd lost. The father I'd thought I had. The childhood that was built on lies.
Alessio held me while I cried, letting me grieve the man Marco should have been instead of the monster he'd become.
"I wanted to tell him I forgave him," I admitted. "Or that I didn't. I wanted that moment. And now I'll never have it."
"Maybe that's better," Alessio said gently. "You don't owe him forgiveness or final words. He lost that right."
"I know. But still…"
We stood as dawn broke over Montana, and I let myself feel the complicated truth: I was glad he was dead. Relieved that my children would be safe. But also sad—for what could have been.
Both things were true.
By afternoon, we were back at the hospital.
The moment I walked into the NICU, the tension I'd been carrying for days finally cracked.
Eva and Ezio were still there. Still fighting. Still alive.
Marco was dead, and they were alive.
"Hi, babies," I said, touching them both. "It's over. The bad man is gone. You're safe now. The danger is gone, and Mama and Daddy aren't going anywhere."
Ezio squirmed at my touch. Eva's oxygen mask had been reduced.
Nurse Sarah appeared. "Good news—Eva's breathing is improving rapidly. We might remove CPAP tomorrow. And Ezio is ready to try bottle feeding."
"Really?"
"Really. They're doing remarkably well."
"When can they come home?"
"Ezio, potentially end of next week. Eva will need another week or two. But both should be home before their due date."
The relief hit me all at once—everything I'd been holding back since the raid, since the escape, since the birth. I started crying. Joy and exhaustion and gratitude pouring out in waves I couldn't control.
"They're going to be just fine," Sarah promised.
Alessio appeared and wrapped his arms around me.
"Good news?"
"The best," I managed. "They're coming home. Both of them."
We stood between our children's isolettes, holding each other. For the first time since their birth, I wasn't afraid to hope.
"It's really over," he murmured. "Marco's gone. The babies are thriving. We survived."
"We survived," I repeated.
For the first time in over a year, it felt completely true.
