Alessio shifted, angling himself between us. His hand moved toward his concealed weapon, slow and deliberate.
"I wouldn't." Marco's aim adjusted to Alessio's head. "You're fast, Valestri. But not faster than a bullet."
The study felt smaller suddenly. Claustrophobic. I was trapped. Behind my father, I glimpsed movement in the hallway. Security, closing in. We'd walked straight into this, and I'd been naive enough to think we'd outsmarted him.
Alessio's hands rose slowly, palms out—but he'd shifted closer to Marco's desk in the process, positioning himself between the safe and the door.
"You're predictable," Marco continued, voice almost conversational. "Just like your mother. Sofia thought she was clever, too,—that she could expose me and run. Look where that got her."
Ice flooded my veins. "The car crash."
"Brake line." He shrugged. "Quick, merciful. More than she deserved after betraying me."
My stomach turned. For eighteen years, I'd mourned her. Visited her grave. Believed the lie. And he'd murdered her. Murdered the woman he'd claimed to love.
"You're wondering if I ever loved you," Marco said, reading my expression. "I did. Still do, in my way. But love doesn't change necessity. You became a liability the moment you saw that email."
Alessio's muscles tensed. I could feel violence coiling in him, see the calculation in his eyes. Measuring angles, counting opponents, assessing survival odds.
"The files," I said, stalling. "We have everything. Banking records, shipment manifests, communications with—"
Marco laughed. Actually laughed.
"Did you really think I wouldn't monitor my own security?" He nodded toward the USB drive in Alessio's hand. "Go ahead. Check it."
Alessio's jaw tightened. He checked the drive on his phone. His face went cold. Blank.
"What?" The word came out sharper than I intended.
"Blank." His voice was flat. "Everything we copied—corrupted files. Fabricated evidence. Against us."
My heart stopped.
"I've been three steps ahead this entire time," Marco said. "The real files are already secure. What you downloaded? Banking records showing Valentina embezzling from Caldwell's campaign. Communications between you and known criminals. Receipts for the assassination attempt. Everything needed to guarantee you both die in federal prison."
The room spun. We hadn't outsmarted him. We'd played directly into his hands.
"Actually," Marco corrected himself, "you won't see prison. That would be messy, public. No, tonight, you'll have a tragic accident during your mental breakdown. Security cameras will show Alessio Valestri kidnapping you, forcing you here. When you tried to escape, things got violent."
He lifted his free hand. Snapped his fingers.
Men materialized from the hallway shadows—too many to count in the sudden rush of movement. Tactical gear, weapons already drawn and aimed. The study filled with armed men, blocking every exit, every escape route I'd memorized.
We were surrounded. Completely. Professionally.
Marco had been expecting us all along.
Alessio moved, but they were faster. Bodies slammed into him from three directions. I screamed as they drove him to the ground, fists and boots connecting with brutal efficiency.
"Stop!" I lunged forward.
Marco caught my arm. His grip was iron, familiar. How many times had he held my hand like this? Walking me to school, teaching me to dance, and presenting me at events.
"Don't make this harder," he said quietly.
Alessio fought back, savage and relentless. He took one man down with an elbow to the throat, another with a vicious headbutt. But there were too many. They overwhelmed him through sheer numbers, forcing him to his knees. Blood streamed from his split lip, his temple.
One of the guards pressed a gun to the back of his head.
