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My army.

The thought sends electricity down my spine, followed immediately by a twist of nausea that has nothing to do with being pregnant.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Ettore asks. He’s been here since dawn, coordinating the final preparations.

I nod, not trusting my voice.

Because it is impressive.

And terrifying.

And everything I never wanted my life to become.

But here we are.

“Walk me through it,” I say, stepping deeper into the chaos.

We move between stations, reviewing the troops before battle. At the first table, three ex-military contractors field-strip assault rifles. They look up as I approach.

“Ma’am,” the leader says. “Weapons are clean and sighted. Every man gets a primary rifle, sidearm, and enough ammunition for extended engagement.”

Extended engagement.

Such clinical terms for what we’re planning.

“Body armor?” I ask.

“Kevlar vests for everyone. Helmets for the assault teams.”

He gestures to neat rows of tactical gear. “We’ve got flash-bangs, smoke grenades, breaching charges. Everything you requested.”

Everything I requested to tear apart Marco’s world.

My stomach lurches again, and I force it down.

Focus.

This isn’t about him anymore.

This is about justice. About the future my child deserves.

“Good work,” I tell them, moving on.

The next station houses our communications setup. Banks of radios, headsets, monitoring equipment.

“Each team gets encrypted radios. The central command station here will have real-time updates on positions, obstacles, casualties,” Ettore explains.

Casualties.

The word hangs in the air like smoke. People are going to die tomorrow night. Maybe Marco. Maybe me. Definitely others.

I push the thought away.

Ettore guides me toward the planning area where massive blueprints cover three folding tables. The Bianchi estate sprawls across the paper.

The estate that used to be my home.

Another twist in the gut.