I met his eyes. "I miss you. Every second of every day. But we're okay. All three of us."
"I miss you too. All of you." He looked at our babies with such longing that it broke my heart. "Tell them—tell them Daddy loves them. That I'm coming home soon."
"Every day," I promised.
The hour passed too quickly.
Leaving him there, walking out with the babies while he stayed behind glass, was the hardest thing I'd done in weeks.
But I did it.
Because I was stronger than I'd been.
Week five, everything changed.
A journalist from the Billings Gazette had reached out the week before, wanting to do a piece on survivors of organized crime. I'd almost said no—the last thing I wanted was attention. But something made me reconsider. Maybe telling our story could help. Maybe it could change how people saw us.
I agreed to one interview. Told our story—surviving Marco, falling in love story, about choosing each other against impossible odds, choosing each other when it cost everything.
It went viral immediately.
Millions of views. The public response was overwhelming. Support flooded in—letters, emails, social media messages.
Suddenly, I wasn't just a mobster's daughter. I was a survivor. A mother. Someone who'd fought for her family and won.
Politicians faced pressure to show mercy. Opinion pieces argued Alessio had been coerced, manipulated, and forced into impossible situations.
The narrative shifted.
And three days later, the call came.
"Mrs. Valestri?" Alessio's lawyer sounded almost breathless. "The judge reviewed the case, given the public response and additional evidence of coercion. Domenico's team located documentation proving Marco had threatened Alessio's sister years ago—proof that Alessio had been trying to extricatehimself from the organization long before he met you. Combined with his full cooperation and the documented threats against your family, the judge found the original sentence already satisfied. He's granted early release. Your husband is getting out in seventy-two hours."
I almost dropped the phone.
"Seventy-two hours? Not six weeks?"
"He's served four weeks, and with cooperation credit and time served during investigation, that's sufficient. He'll be released Friday at noon."
Friday. Three days.
Alessio was coming home.
I spent those three days in frantic preparation.
With Marco dead and his network dismantled, we didn't need witness protection or new identities. We were free to live as ourselves—just somewhere quiet, somewhere peaceful, somewhere we could raise our children without looking over our shoulders.
The FBI had helped us secure a small ranch house outside Bozeman—not hiding, just starting a fresh start in a place we'd chosen. Three bedrooms, wraparound porch, mountain views.
Home. Our real home.
Sofia and Livia helped me move in, set up the nursery, and stock the kitchen. I painted the bedroom soft gray, hung curtains, and made everything perfect.
"He's not going to care about the paint color," Livia said, watching me obsess over throw pillows. "He's going to care that you're there."
"I know. But I want it to be perfect. Want him to walk in and see the life we're building."
"He will," Sofia promised. "It's beautiful, Valentina. You've made a real home."
