She squeezed my hand, eyes bright with unshed tears. "So do you, baby. And look what you've built—a husband who adores you, two beautiful babies, real peace. We both made it out. We both get second chances."
"We did," I whispered, throat tight.
She pulled me into a careful hug, mindful of Eva sleeping against my chest.
"I'm proud of you," she said quietly. "So incredibly proud of the woman you've become. The mother you are. The life you've built from the ashes."
"I'm proud of you, too, Mom. For surviving. For coming back. For being here now when I need you."
We stood like that for a moment—three generations of DeLuca women who'd all survived the same monster in different ways, all finding our way back to each other and to peace.
Week three, my therapist started pushing harder.
Dr. Crawford had been seeing me twice weekly since Marco's death—virtual sessions while Sofia watched the babies.
"You're processing grief," she said during one session, "but you're not processing your trauma. There's a difference."
"I'm fine—"
"You have nightmares four nights a week. You panic when cars backfire. You check the locks obsessively." Her voice was gentle but firm. "Valentina, surviving Marco doesn't mean you're healed from what he did to you."
The truth of it hit hard.
I'd been so focused on just getting through each day—babies, feedings, exhaustion—that I'd ignored the fact that I was still carrying everything.
"I don't have time to fall apart," I said. "The twins need me to be functional."
"Healing isn't falling apart. It's the only way to become truly functional." She leaned forward. "You don't have to do this alone. Let me help."
So I did.
I started actually processing instead of just surviving. The fear. The betrayal. The complicated grief of losing a father who'd tried to kill me.
It was brutal. And necessary.
Slowly, genuinely, I started healing.
The first prison visit happened in week four.
Minimum security facility outside Billings—more like a college campus than a prison. I was allowed one hour weekly, supervised, with the babies.
Alessio appeared on the other side of the glass partition, and my heart clenched.
Thinner. Tired. But smiling when he saw us.
I held up Ezio to the glass. Then Eva.
"Hi, Daddy," I said for them. "Look who came to visit."
His hand pressed against the glass where Eva's tiny palm was. "Hi, sweet girl. Hi, Ezio. You're getting so big already."
"Ezio gained eight ounces this week. Eva's up to five pounds, three ounces."
"That's good. That's so good." His voice was rough with emotion. "How are you? Really?"
"Surviving. Sofia's been amazing. Livia too. We're managing."
"Just managing?"
