Behind us, Marco's voice echoed. "Lock down the estate! No one leaves!"
Too late.
We burst into the garage. Dozens of expensive cars gleamed under fluorescent lights. Alessio made straight for a black Bugatti Chiron—Marco's pride and joy.
"Seriously?" Domenico panted.
"He tried to kill her." Alessio grabbed the key fob from the mounted rack and fired the ignition. "I'm taking his fucking car."
Petty. Satisfying. Perfect.
I dove into the passenger seat. Domenico and three other men piled into vehicles beside us. The garage door was already closing, heavy steel descending.
Alessio floored it.
The Bugatti screamed forward, engine roaring. We shot under the closing door with inches to spare, scraping paint from the roof. Then we were out, tearing down the long driveway toward the main road.
Gunfire sparked off the trunk. I twisted in my seat, saw security vehicles pursuing. Domenico's car rammed one, sending it spinning into the gardens. Another swerved to avoid the wreck and crashed into ornamental hedges.
We hit the main road doing ninety, tires shrieking. Alessio drove like he fought—aggressive, precise, utterly in control. He wove through evening traffic, ran red lights, and took corners that made my stomach drop.
Gradually, the pursuing vehicles fell back. Alessio's men blocked intersections and created chaos. By the time we reached the highway, we'd lost them completely.
Only then did my body start shaking.
Adrenaline drained away, leaving me trembling violently. My hands wouldn't steady. My breath came too fast, too shallow. The gun felt impossibly heavy in my lap.
"Valentina." Alessio's hand found mine. Warm, solid, real. "Breathe. You're safe."
Safe. The word felt foreign.
I'd watched my father—the man who taught me to read, who'd dried my tears, who'd walked me through museums explaining every painting—point a gun at my chest without hesitation. He'd admitted to murdering my mother. Had given me sixty seconds to choose between marrying my would-be killer or dying.
And he'd meant every word.
The shaking got worse. My teeth chattered despite the warm night. Shock, I realized distantly. I was going into shock.
Alessio pulled off the highway and guided the stolen Aston Martin down a dark service road. The moment we stopped, he was out of his seat, pulling me into his arms.
I collapsed against his chest. The sobs came from somewhere deep, primal. Everything I'd held back during the confrontation, the terror I'd suppressed to stay functional. It poured out now in great, wracking waves.
"He was going to kill me," I gasped between sobs. "My own father was going to—"
"I know." Alessio held me tighter. "I know, baby. I'm sorry. I'm so fucking sorry."
"My mother. The car crash. It was him. He murdered her, and I mourned her and he—"
My voice broke completely. I couldn't finish the thought, couldn't process the enormity of it. Eighteen years of grief, of missing her, of wishing she'd lived to see me grow up. And he'd told me—with that casual cruelty, like discussing the weather—that he'd cut her brake line. That he'd murdered the woman he'd claimed to love because she threatened to expose him.
Just like he was trying to murder me now.
The parallel was too much. I'd spent eighteen years believing my mother died in a tragic accident. Now Marco was claiming he'd killed her deliberately, and I had no idea what was real anymore. Everything he'd ever told me had been lies.
But this—this felt like the kind of truth that destroyed you from the inside out.
Domenico appeared at the window, expression grim. "We need to move. Marco's people will be searching every road within fifty miles."
Alessio didn't look at him. His arms were still around me, his chin resting on the top of my head. But his voice shifted—harder, operational. "Not yet." He reached into his jacket and pulled out a small black device. "I grabbed this from Marco's safe while he was delivering ultimatums. Before everything went sideways."
