"I know so." His voice was quiet, certain. "And I meant what I said before—about being a godfather when the time comes. I'm honored,fratello."
"There's no one else I'd trust."
"Then we'd better make sure you both survive to give me that chance. Drive careful. Check in every four hours."
I hung up and sat in the cold for another moment. Stars scattered across the sky above the trees—more than I'd ever seen in Boston. The same stars Valentina's mother might be looking at right now, if she were alive. If Marco had lied.
A lot of ifs. But ifs were all we had.
I drove back to the cabin and let myself in quietly. Valentina hadn't moved. Lamplight caught the damp tracks still drying on her cheeks.
I checked the windows. Checked the door. Set my gun on the nightstand, same as last time.
Then I stretched out beside her on the narrow couch, pulled her against my chest, and stared at the ceiling while she slept.
Tomorrow, we'd plan. Or the day after. We had a few days here—enough time for Domenico to dig into Sofia, enough distance for Marco's search grid to widen past us. Eventually, we'd need to move, figure out how to stay invisible while Marco's bounty turned every mercenary on the Eastern Seaboard into a threat. But not tonight.
Tonight, I'd hold her. And that was enough.
CHAPTER 12
Valentina
Afew days at the cabin, and I'd started to remember what quiet sounded like.
Not silence—the woods were never silent. Wind through the pines, birds I couldn't name, the generator's low hum beneath it all. But quiet. The absence of threat. No footsteps in hallways, no phones ringing with orders, no countdown clock ticking in my father's voice.
We slept late. Ate canned soup and pasta from Domenico's supply stash. Alessio cleaned and recleaned his weapons at the kitchen table while I sat on the porch with coffee and watched the tree line, waiting for a fear that never arrived.
On the second morning, I'd found him standing at the woodstove, scrambling powdered eggs with the focus of a man defusing a bomb.
"You cook like you're angry at the food," I told him.
"The food deserves it." He scraped something blackened off the pan. "Powdered eggs are a crime against humanity."
"You're a mafia don. Can't you have someone airdrop us a frittata?"
"Domenico's working on something more important than breakfast."
He hadn't told me what. I hadn't pushed. There was an unspoken agreement between us those first days—no plans, no strategy, no talk of Marco or evidence or what came next. Just rest. Just us.
But on the third morning, I woke to Alessio sitting on the edge of the bed, phone in his hand, staring at the screen. He'd driven out for signal—I'd gotten used to hearing the Bugatti crunch down the dirt road in the early hours and return twenty minutes later.
Something was different this time. His posture. The way he held the phone like it weighed more than it should.
"What happened?" I sat up, pulse already climbing. "Is it Marco? Did he—"
"No. Not Marco." He set the phone down. Turned to face me. His expression was careful, controlled—the way he looked when he was about to deliver news he'd already decided how to frame.
I knew that look. My father used to wear it before board meetings.
"Don't manage me," I said. "Whatever it is, just say it."
He held my gaze. "Domenico found your mother."
The words didn't land. They hung in the air between us, meaningless sounds that my brain refused to assemble into information.
"Found her," I repeated.
