"Spread thin managing the crowd," I countered. "Catering staff, valet service, guests everywhere. Maximum chaos, minimum attention on his private spaces. It's the perfect window."
I crossed to the table where we'd been reviewing Marco's operations, pulled out the sketch I'd made days ago of the estate layout—every room, every passage, every security blind spot memorized from eighteen years of living there.
"The study is here, third floor, east wing. There are servant passages Marco never upgraded—he thinks they add 'old world charm.'" I traced the route with my finger. "We go in as cateringstaff, blend with the crowd, slip into the passages during cocktail hour when everyone's distracted. The safe is behind this painting. Combination is my mother's birthday—he never changed it."
Alessio studied the sketch, and I watched him shift into the strategic mind that had run a criminal empire for two decades. "We'd need credentials. Uniforms. Timing has to be perfect."
"Domenico can handle credentials. The catering company Marco uses hires temporary staff for big events—easy to infiltrate." I met his eyes. "I know the security schedules, the patrol patterns, which passages connect where. I know my father's routines. This can work, Alessio."
"It's still incredibly dangerous. If Marco catches us—"
"Then we fight our way out. Together." I moved closer to him. "But if we don't try, if we just keep running, we'll spend the rest of our lives looking over our shoulders. Our children will grow up in hiding. Is that the future you want?"
Children. The word hung between us—the future we'd imagined on the porch last night, suddenly feeling more real and more fragile simultaneously.
"No," he said quietly. "That's not the future I want."
"Then we end this. We get the evidence, leak it to the press, and let federal prosecutors have him. Marco spends the rest of his life in prison while we disappear into that quiet life we talked about."
Alessio pulled me close, his forehead resting against mine. "You're sure about this? Once we commit, there's no backing out."
"I've never been more sure of anything." I took his hands, held them tight. "Three days to prepare properly. Every contingency, every escape route, every possible complication. We do this smart, we do this carefully, and we do it together."
He kissed me then—soft and deep and full of everything we were fighting for.
"Together," he agreed. "Always together."
The next three days blurred into intensive preparation.
Domenico couriered credentials, background documentation, and equipment. We memorized catering company protocols, practiced moving through the estate using my sketched maps, and planned for every contingency we could imagine.
Alessio drilled me on weapons handling until I could field-strip and reassemble a Glock without hesitating. We rehearsed hand signals, extraction routes, and what to do if we got separated.
"If Marco corners you," he said during one session, expression deadly serious, "you run. You don't try to fight him, you don't try to reason with him. You run, and you get to the extraction point. Domenico's team will get you out."
"Only if you promise the same thing."
"Valentina—"
"No." I grabbed his shirt and made him look at me. "We both survive, or neither of us does. That's been the deal from the beginning. I'm not changing it now just because we're walking into the most dangerous situation yet."
His jaw clenched, but he nodded. "Both of us. I promise."
But I saw the lie in his eyes. Saw that if it came down to choosing, he'd sacrifice himself without hesitation.
I'd just have to make sure it never came to that choice.
The night before the gala, neither of us could sleep.
We sat on the cabin porch wrapped in blankets, watching stars scatter across the impossibly clear sky. Tomorrow we'd walk back into Marco's world. Tomorrow, everything would either end or begin.
"Tell me about after," I said quietly. "Not the plan. Not the extraction routes. Just… after."
He was quiet for a moment, thumb tracing slow circles on my shoulder. "After tomorrow, when Marco's finished and we're free—I'm making you that Sunday gravy I promised. The full six-hour ritual. Nonna's recipe." His voice softened. "The good parts of where we come from, without any of the blood."
"I'm holding you to that."
"Good." He kissed the top of my head. "Something to survive for, amore."
