I nodded.
"We need to secure you, but you're not under arrest at this time. Cooperate, and this goes smoothly."
I cooperated. Let them pat me down, check for weapons, and ensure my hands stayed visible. I watched them stabilize Marco, read him rights he'd spent decades violating.
Our eyes met one last time.
No words. Nothing left to say. The blood debt was broken, the oath betrayed, the empire crumbling. He'd gambled everything and lost.
"The panic room," I said to the sergeant. "Valentina's inside. She needs—"
"We've got medical standing by. Tactical team is breaching now."
I watched them work on the door Marco had nearly cut through. Hydraulic spreaders in the gap he'd made, metal groaning as they forced it wider.
The reinforced door gave way with a shriek of torn steel.
Valentina stood framed in the doorway—pale, shaking, one hand cradled against her chest, but alive. So beautifully, perfectly alive.
Our eyes locked.
Then she stumbled forward, and I caught her. We collapsed together, her face buried in my neck, my arms around her despite the zip-ties, both of us bleeding and traumatized butalive.
"My mother—" Her voice broke. "My mother—the hospital—did Marco—"
"She's safe. Recovering from surgery. He didn't get to her." I pressed my forehead to hers, breathing her in. "You're safe now. It's over."
"Is it really over?"
Before I could answer, she went limp in my arms.
Valentina went limp in my arms.
"Valentina!" I caught her weight and lowered her carefully to the floor. "Medic! I need a medic now!"
Paramedics rushed in, pushed me back gently, and started checking vitals. Blood pressure, pulse, pupils. Their hands moved with practiced efficiency while I knelt helplessly, watching.
"Vitals are stable," one announced. "Looks like shock and exhaustion. dehydration. We need to get her to a hospital."
They loaded her onto a gurney with gentle care.
I tried to follow, but officers held me back—gently but firmly.
"Sir, you need medical attention, too. That head wound—"
"I'm fine. I need to go with her—"
"You'll see her at the hospital. We need to process the scene first. Get you treated. Standard protocol."
I watched them wheel Valentina away through the destroyed mansion, past gawking officers and crime scene techs, out into flashing lights and media chaos.
She disappeared into the ambulance.
And I stood there, hands still zip-tied, blood dripping from my forehead, not knowing if she was really okay.
Not knowing if this was truly over.
Not knowing anything except that I'd do it all again—every bullet, every scar, every moment of terror—to keep her safe.
