Chapter 3

Twenty-four hours passed after the documents were delivered.

Dante's assistant signed for mine. A desk officer accepted Luca's at Major Crimes. Neither man responded.

That night, Valentina posted from her townhouse.

In the photo, Luca knelt beside a newly installed brass security panel while Dante sat on the sofa holding a portable heart monitor. Valentina wore an oversized cashmere sweater and the red silk bracelet Mrs. Moretti had once given her for protection.

Her caption read:

[Real family always comes when the alarm goes off.]

Moretti cousins and family associates flooded the comments with praise. Someone asked what it felt like to have both brothers taking care of her.

Valentina replied with a white heart.

Sofia stared at the screen until her eyes went red. "Do they think it only counts as crossing a line if somebody's tongue is involved?"

"They're not our problem anymore." I locked my phone.

I still answered when Dante called that evening.

He sounded exhausted, probably fresh from surgery. "Did you send divorce papers to my hospital because you wanted the entire staff to know we're fighting over Valentina?"

"We aren't fighting. I'm ending the marriage."

"Her alarm was compromised, Elena. Her arrhythmia was real. I didn't abandon my job to keep her company."

"I never accused you of treating her."

"Then why did you and Sofia file at the same time, with almost identical language? What am I supposed to call that except coordinated pressure?"

My daughter's death certificate lay on the bedside table.

There was no explanation he couldn't reshape. If I said the baby was dead, I was threatening him. If I said I wanted a divorce, I was fighting for attention. If I stayed silent, he would call it an admission.

A glass touched wood on his end of the line. Then Valentina spoke, soft and selfless.

"Dante, don't argue with Elena because of me. She's pregnant, and hormones can make everything feel bigger. I can stay at a hotel."

He turned away from the phone to reassure her. "No. Somebody breached your security. You're not staying alone until we know who did it."

Then he came back to me. "You heard her. She's willing to leave her own home to keep the peace. You and Sofia can't keep translating every situation into an attack."

My fingers tightened around the phone. "Are you staying there?"

"Luca and I both are. For tonight."

"Fine. The agreement gives me the East Sixty-Seventh Street apartment. I'm walking away from the Long Island property and the family trust. There is nothing for you to contest."

"I'm not signing."

"Then I'll file in court."

A long silence passed. "You're really taking it this far?"

"Yes."

"Over a few missed calls?"

"No. Because I finally understand that, in your mind, I will always come second to whatever story Valentina tells first."

I hung up.

Luca tried a different approach with Sofia. He laid out his reasoning like a case: two sisters, two nearly identical emergencies, both occurring while Valentina's alarm was active. Statistically, he said, it looked staged.

"Did you verify anything?" Sofia asked.

He had no answer.

He hadn't contacted the maternity clinic, pulled emergency dispatch logs, or asked a colleague to check the intersection. He had convicted his own wife on the strength of a screenshot with no verified source.

"You didn't distrust me because of evidence," she told him. "You decided from the beginning that Valentina wouldn't lie and I would."

Two days later, we transferred to a private recovery center no one in the Moretti family knew about. We registered under Rossi, restricted our medical files, and refused all family inquiries.

For two weeks, Dante and Luca didn't find us.

The truth was, they didn't seriously look.

To them, disappearing, turning off our phones, and filing for divorce were only the next stage of a tantrum they expected us to end.