"I was eight. I didn't understand. I thought she was dead and I—I blamed myself, Alessio. For years. I thought if I'd been better, if I'd been easier, maybe she wouldn't have—" My voice broke. "And she was in Arizona."
He crossed the room. Didn't touch me—he'd learned to wait, to let me come to him when the big feelings hit. He just stood close enough that I could feel his warmth, his presence, the solid fact of him.
"She left to keep you alive," he said quietly. "That's what Domenico found. Marco gave her the same kind of choice he gave you—leave alone and live, or take you and die together. She chose the option that kept you breathing."
"She could have found a way. She could have—"
"Maybe. Or maybe Marco would have killed you both. We don't know." He paused. "But she's been waiting for you. That has to mean something."
I wiped my face. My hands were shaking again—not from fear this time, but from the sheer overwhelm of feeling too many things at once. Hope and fury and grief and hunger for a woman I barely remembered, all of it crashing together like waves hitting a break wall from every direction.
"I want to see her," I said.
"I know."
"Right now. Today. I want to—"
"We will. Domenico's already working out the logistics." His hand found mine. "But we need to be smart about this. A stolen Bugatti belonging to your father is not the car we drive to Arizona."
Despite everything—despite the tears and the shaking and the earthquake still rippling through my chest—I almost laughed. "No. I suppose it isn't."
"Domenico's meeting us at a rest stop outside Harrisburg with a clean car. We leave the Bugatti, pick up something forgettable, and drive south."
"What happens to the Bugatti?"
Alessio's mouth twitched. "Domenico has opinions about that. I told him to be creative."
I looked around the cabin. Three days of quiet. Three days of canned soup and bad coffee and sleeping pressed against Alessio's chest while the generator hummed and the woods held us in something close to peace. It had been enough. More than enough.
But my mother was alive in Arizona, and she was waiting for me.
"Give me ten minutes," I said.
I packed what little we had. Splashed water on my face. Stared at myself in the small bathroom mirror—red-rimmed eyes, hollow cheeks, hair that hadn't seen a proper brush in days. I looked like someone who'd survived something.
I supposed I had.
When I came out, Alessio had already loaded the car. The Bugatti sat idling on the gravel, absurdly beautiful against the backdrop of rough pines and dirt. Marco's pride and joy, stolen by the man who'd pulled his daughter out of his execution chamber.
We wouldn't have it much longer. But I was glad we'd taken it.
Domenico was waiting at the rest stop, leaning against a silver Honda Accord so aggressively ordinary it might as well have been invisible. Two of Alessio's men stood at a distance, scanning the parking lot.
"Nice ride," Domenico said, eyeing the Bugatti as we pulled in. "Shame."
"Don't scratch it," Alessio said, tossing him the fob.
"Wouldn't dream of it." Domenico caught the keys, then looked at me. His expression softened. "How are you holding up?"
"Ask me in twenty-four hours."
He nodded, understanding. "Arizona's roughly thirty hours of driving. I've mapped a route that keeps you off major highways—state roads, back roads, nothing with cameras. Cash only for gas and food. There's a bag in the trunk with clothes, supplies, and burner phones."
He handed Alessio a folder. "Sofia's address, the marshals' contact info, and the approach protocol. She knows you're coming. She's—" He paused, choosing his words. "She's anxious."
She's anxious. My mother was anxious about seeing me.
I didn't know what to do with that.
