I kissed her then, slow and deep and full of everything I couldn't say.
When we broke apart, I pressed my forehead to hers. "Three more days of testimony. Then Marco goes to trial. Then we're free."
"Promise?"
"Promise."
The next three days followed the same brutal pattern.
Morning testimony. Valentina reliving trauma while I watched from behind that glass. Afternoon collapse. Evening recovery in my arms.
But each night, she told me something about our imagined future.
"I want a house with a garden," she said on the third night. "Somewhere I can grow tomatoes and herbs. Teach our kids where food comes from."
"We'll have that," I promised, pressing a kiss to her temple.
The next evening, after another brutal session recounting financial transactions, she whispered, "I want Sunday dinners. Real ones, like you told me about. Your Nonna's gravy simmering all day. Family gathered around the table."
"We'll have that too." My hand found hers in the darkness, fingers interlacing.
On the final day—after five days of testimony that had stripped her raw—she settled into my arms with exhausted finality. "I want boring. I want normal. I want to worry about soccer practice and parent-teacher conferences instead of who's trying to kill us."
I held her closer. "That's exactly what we'll have. I swear it."
By week's end, the case was airtight.
Prosecutors walked us through it—RICO violations, murder, weapons trafficking. "Life sentences, plural," Rivera said. "No parole. No deals. Marco DeLuca will die in prison."
Valentina's hand found mine under the table, squeezed once.
That night under Arizona stars, she asked: "When this is over, where do we go?"
"Anywhere," I said. "Small town. Quiet life. Somewhere no one knows our names."
"As long as it's with you."
I kissed her forehead, let myself believe—for the first time in weeks—that we might actually survive this.
The next morning, I left early.
Domenico needed to meet fifteen minutes away—urgent discussion about additional security arrangements before the trial.
"Three more personnel," he said as I climbed into his armored SUV. "Best I've got. Ex-military, combat experienced."
"Where?"
"Arriving tonight. I want them integrated into the FBI rotation within twenty-four hours."
We drove toward a diner on the outskirts of Scottsdale. Reviewed guard rotations. Discussed sight lines and response protocols.
The plates—did you get them swapped?"
Domenico nodded. "Second night. But I ran the traffic camera data from our drive in." His jaw tightened. "The Accord's original Pennsylvania tags got flagged by a plate reader outside Tucson. Automated system—feeds into law enforcement databases."
My stomach dropped. "Marco has access to those databases."
"Half the corrupt cops on the eastern seaboard owe him favors. If someone ran a query on out-of-state plates entering Arizona—"
