But lying there in my childhood bed, feeling the nausea roll through me in waves, I couldn't ignore it anymore.
Something was different.
Something had changed.
The thought had just formed when the door opened.
Marco DeLuca entered like he owned the room. Because he did.
Distinguished silver hair perfectly styled. Expensive charcoal suit tailored to his trim frame—Tom Ford, probably. Italianleather shoes polished to a mirror shine. The successful businessman mask he'd worn so well—the same one I'd believed for twenty-six years.
Now, the mask was gone entirely.
His expression held only cold calculation as he closed the door with a soft click.
"Valentina." My name came out almost gentle. "You're awake. Good."
He settled into the reading chair by my window, crossing his legs with casual ease.
"You have people in the FBI." My voice came out hoarse.
"I have people everywhere, dearest daughter. Agent Simpson has been on my payroll for three years. Excellent investment."
He said it like discussing a successful stock purchase.
"Did you really think federal custody would protect you? I built an empire by being thorough, Valentina. By having contingencies for every contingency."
I stared at him, trying to reconcile this monster with the father who'd read me bedtime stories. Who'd taught me to ride a bike. Who'd cried at my college graduation.
All lies. Everything had been lies.
"How's my mother?" The question burst out.
"Your mother's still alive. Still alive in the hospital under guard." His expression didn't change. "For now."
The implication hung in the air. I didn't need him to spell it out.
He's going to kill her, too.
His expression hardened. "You know too much," Marco said, standing abruptly. "That memory of yours—always so proud of it. Now, it's your death sentence. Every conversation, every document, every transaction. You're a walking liability."
He pulled a prescription bottle from his pocket. Rattled it.
"Oxycodone. Prescribed for my knee surgery. Perfectly legitimate." He set it on my nightstand. "Unstable daughter. Tragic overdose. I discovered you too late."
The clinical nature of it made my vision blur.
"Caldwell won't be talking either," he added. "Cardiac arrest. Stress of incarceration."
Marco paused with his hand on the doorknob. "I'll be back in an hour. Either way, you'll be dead by morning."
The lock engaged with a terrible snick.
Alone. Waiting to be murdered by my own father.
No. Not like this.
What would Alessio do?
