His hand covered mine. "She asked for you. Specifically you. That means something."
"It means she needs my testimony."
He glanced over. "You don't believe that."
I didn't. But believing my mother wanted me—not my photographic memory, not my evidence, but me—was a hope so fragile I couldn't hold it directly. I had to approach it sideways, skeptically, or it would shatter before I reached it.
We drove through suburban streets that looked aggressively normal. The safe house blended seamlessly—modest single-story ranch, beige stucco, attached garage. The kind of place your eyes slid right past.
Domenico waited in the driveway, phone pressed to his ear. He nodded at Alessio, and he'd beaten us here somehow—I'd stopped questioning his logistics. He gave me an encouraging smile.
"Perimeter's clean," he said. "Sofia's inside. Marshals are monitoring from down the block."
My legs felt unsteady as I stood. Eighteen years since I'd seen my mother. Since I'd believed her dead.
Alessio's hand found mine. "Ready?"
"No." I squeezed his fingers. "But let's do it anyway."
We walked to the door. I knocked.
Footsteps inside. Lock clicking. Handle turning.
The door opened.
She stood in the doorway, and time collapsed. I knew that face. Knew it from photographs, from memories, from my own mirror. Same green eyes, same determined chin, same dark hair now streaked with silver.
She looked at me. I looked at her.
Neither of us moved.
Then her face crumpled. "My baby. My beautiful baby girl."
She reached for me, and I fell into her arms. Eighteen years of separation crashed over us—grief and relief and rage and love tangling into something too big for words.
We sobbed on the doorstep. Held each other. Didn't let go.
Alessio's voice was soft. "I'll give you space."
But I grabbed his hand. "Stay. Please."
So he did.
Inside, Sofia made tea with shaking hands. We sat on opposite ends of the couch, studying each other.
"You're so grown up," she whispered. "Last time I saw you, you still believed in fairy tales."
"Last time I saw you, I thought you were coming back from the grocery store." My voice came out harder than I intended. "Eighteen years. You've been alive eighteen years and never—"
"I know." Fresh tears spilled down her cheeks. "I know, and I'm sorry. God, Valentina, I'm so sorry."
"Why?" The word was ripped from somewhere deep. "Why did you leave me with him?"
She set down her teacup, hands clasped tightly.
"When you were eight, I found documents. Hidden in Marco's office. Shipping manifests for weapons. Bank statements. Communications with cartels." Her voice steadied. "I confronted him. Told him I was taking you and leaving."
I waited, heart pounding.
