Valentina continued.
"Richard placed his phone call on speaker. I heard my father's voice confirming the Tuesday delivery schedule. He said, and I quote: 'Tell Miguel the shipment clears customs at six a.m. Our people will handle the transfer at the DeLuca warehouse on Northern Avenue. Payment hits the account by noon.'"
"Your father said this? Marco DeLuca?"
"Yes."
"How did you react?"
"I pretended not to understand my role in their arrangement. I smiled. Said something about the wedding. Richard relaxed." Her hands clenched. "Then I left and ran."
They questioned her for four hours straight.
She never faltered. Never contradicted herself. Provided detail after detail with machine precision.
Account numbers. Shipping routes. Names of cartel contacts. Dates spanning three years.
One prosecutor whispered to Morris: "She's going to bury him."
Pride swelled in my chest. But I saw the cost.
Her hands shook when she described the moment she realized her father was still a criminal. Her voice cracked as she explained the fabricated evidence framing her.
She was reliving trauma with every word.
By eight p.m., they finally called it for the day.
I was at the door before it fully opened, every muscle coiled tight from four hours of forced stillness. Four hours of watching the woman I loved answering for every moment of terror and betrayal while I sat behind glass, helpless.
Valentina emerged looking like a ghost of herself.
Face pale as parchment. Eyes red-rimmed and hollow. The navy skirt and white blouse she'd put on this morning with such careful dignity now wrinkled, the collar askew where she'd twisted it during the worst questions.
She saw me, and something in her expression cracked.
"Alessio—"
She collapsed into my arms before I could close the distance. Just folded, like every bone had dissolved, trusting me to catch her.
I did. Always would.
Her weight settled against me—slight, trembling, too light because she'd barely eaten in days. I pulled her closer, one arm banded across her shoulders, the other cupping the back of her head, fingers sliding into her hair.
She smelled like stress sweat and the floral shampoo from this morning, and something underneath that was purely her. That scent I'd memorized in the motel room, in my penthouse, in every moment we'd stolen between running and fighting and surviving.
Home. She smelled like home.
"I've got you," I murmured against her temple, lips pressing there, then her forehead, then the crown of her head. Small kisses, grounding both of us. "You're done. No more today."
Her fingers fisted in my shirt, clutching like I might disappear. "They want two more hours. Rivera said—"
"I don't care what Rivera said." I pulled back just enough to see her face, cupped her jaw with both hands, thumbs stroking her cheekbones. "You're done, amore.
You've given them enough for today."
"But the case—"
"The case can wait until tomorrow. You need rest. Food. Sleep." I pressed my forehead to hers, felt her shaky exhale ghost across my lips. "You need me to take care of you for a few hours. Let me."
