Eventually, Cesare conceded. "Fine. But you stay in the vehicle. Protected. No heroics."
"Same to you."
After Piero left, I said quietly: "He's scared. Really scared. I've never seen him like that."
"He almost died. We all did. And now Viktor might walk free in three hours." Cesare's voice was tight. "Fear is appropriate."
Whilst Cesare handled final preparations with Giulio, my mind drifted back to last night.
After our intimate interlude, after we'd both finally relaxed, Giulio had brought Sofia and Isabella to the hospital around 2 a.m.
I'd watched their reunion through the waiting room window—Sofia collapsing when she saw her daughter, both of them sobbing, holding each other like they'd never let go.
Isabella was sixteen, dark-haired, frightened but defiant. She had her mother's eyes.
"Am I really free?" Isabelle had asked, voice shaking. "He said he'd kill you if I tried to escape. Said he'd know."
"He lied," Sofia had whispered. "He lied about everything. You're safe now. We're both safe."
Afterwards, Sofia came to thank us again.
"I'll do whatever you need," she'd said, voice raw from crying. "Testify against Viktor, feed him false information, anything. You gave me my daughter back."
"Viktor knows we have Isabella," Cesare had said bluntly. "His guards at the Weehawken property reported the raid. So he knows you came to us, knows we rescued her."
Sofia's face had gone pale. "Then he'll—"
"He'll assume we forced you. That we discovered you wereil falcoand coerced your cooperation by threatening Isabella." Cesare's expression was calculating. "Let him think that. It keeps you valuable as a potential double agent in his eyes. He'll try to flip you back."
"And when he does?"
"You tell us everything he says. Every offer. Every threat. You become our window into what he's planning."
Sofia had nodded, understanding. "I can do that. For Isabella. For everything you've done."
Now, hours later, I wondered if Sofia could pull it off—lying to Viktor convincingly whilst her daughter was finally safe.
At 7 a.m., a nurse brought clothes that Giulio had arranged—proper clothes, not hospital gowns. For Cesare: a dark suit, crisp white shirt, tie. Armour for the courtroom. For me: a navy dress, elegant but not flashy. Professional. Put-together.
Getting Cesare dressed was a challenge—every movement hurt, the bandages bulking under his shirt.
"You don't have to do this," I said as I helped him with his tie. "You could stay here. Rest. Let Giulio handle the hearing."
"Viktor expects me broken and hiding. I need him to see I'm not."
"You are broken. You were shot four days ago."
"Then I'll be broken in a suit at the courthouse instead of broken in a hospital bed." His hands covered mine. "I need to be there, Paola. Need to look him in the eye."
I understood. This wasn't about strategy. It was about pride. Power. Refusing to show weakness.
"Okay. But I'm coming with you."
"I know. I wouldn't have it any other way."
We left the hospital at 7:45 a.m. in a convoy: two SUVs and heavily armed security. Cesare, Giulio, and I rode in the lead vehicle. Piero followed in the second with medical equipment and a backup team.
The drive through Manhattan was tense and quiet.
