"The drive," I said. "The backup drive from Marco's safe. Do you still have it?"
"Locked in a secure location. Three copies in three different cities, all with people I trust." Domenico's voice was firm. "Whatever happens in Arizona, that evidence is safe."
Alessio shook Domenico's hand, pulled him into a brief embrace. Something passed between them—gratitude, trust, the silent language of men who'd survived together long enough to stop needing words.
Then Domenico turned to me. "Your mother's been waiting eighteen years for this. Whatever you're feeling right now—the anger, the confusion—she's earned every bit of it. But she loves you. That much I'm certain of."
My throat tightened. I nodded, not trusting my voice.
We transferred our things to the Accord. Alessio slid behind the wheel, adjusted the mirrors, and pulled out of the rest stop without looking back.
I watched in the side mirror as Domenico climbed into the Bugatti. The engine roared—obscenely loud in the quiet parking lot—and then he pulled away in the opposite direction, the black car shrinking to a point and disappearing.
Gone. The last tangible piece of my father's world, driven away.
I turned forward. Alessio's hand found mine on the center console, fingers interlacing the way they always did now.
"Thirty hours," he said.
"Thirty hours."
The highway stretched ahead, and somewhere at the other end of it, my mother was waiting.
The Honda Accord drove like what it was—a car designed to be forgotten. After the Bugatti's snarl, the engine sounded almost apologetic.
I didn't mind. Forgettable was what we needed.
We drove south and west through Pennsylvania on state roads that wound through small towns with names I'd never heard. Alessio kept to the speed limit, signaled every turn, and became the most law-abiding criminal I'd ever seen. The irony wasn't lost on either of us.
Somewhere past the state line, the knot in my chest loosened enough to let hunger in. We stopped at a roadside diner—vinyl booths, coffee that tasted like burnt dirt, pie that made up for it. An elderly waitress called us "hon" and didn't look twice atthe dangerous man sitting across from the woman in thrift-store jeans.
"Normal," I said, cutting into an apple pie.
"What?"
"This. No bodyguards. No protocol. No one trying to kill us." I gestured around the faded diner. "It's normal."
Alessio's mouth quirked. "Give it time."
"Optimist."
"Realist."
But he smiled when he said it, and the expression transformed his face from dangerous to devastating.
We didn't talk about Sofia over pie. Didn't talk about Marco or evidence or what waited in Arizona. We talked about nothing—the bad coffee, a trucking company logo that looked obscene, whether the waitress was flirting with Alessio or trying to adopt him. Small things. Ordinary things.
I hadn't realized how starved I was for ordinary.
That night, we stopped at a motel outside Columbus. Peeling paint, questionable bedspread, and a shower that sputtered lukewarm water. I'd grown up in mansions with marble bathrooms.
I'd never been happier.
Alessio locked the door, checked the windows, and positioned his gun on the nightstand. Old habits. Then he turned to me, and the habits fell away.
I crossed the stained carpet and kissed him. Tasted coffee and pie and something that felt like a promise.
"Alessio?"
