The ice had sunk into my bones long before the headlights cut through the Hudson River fog.

Spring arrived in New York not with warmth, but with a clearing of the sky.

The destruction of the Thorne syndicate sent shockwaves through the American underworld. Within three weeks, the remnants of Thorne's territory were absorbed seamlessly into the Vance Syndicate, establishing Elias as the undisputed, absolute authority of the Eastern Seaboard. The corruption in the precincts was systematically purged by a newly appointed, unbribable federal prosecutor.

And then came the trial of Richard Miller.

The Manhattan Federal Courthouse was swarmed by hundreds of international journalists, television crews, and citizens carrying signs that read **JUSTICE FOR AVA AND THE TWINS.**

I sat in the witness box.

I wore a simple, tailored ivory pantsuit. My hair was pulled back into an elegant knot. I was completely composed. Beside me sat my legal counsel, funded by Elias, while across the courtroom sat Richard.

He looked ruined. Stripped of his tailored suits and swagger, he wore an orange Department of Corrections jumpsuit. His wrist was set in a cheap cast; his face was gaunt, his eyes hollowed out by fear and sleepless nights in solitary confinement.

"Mrs. Vance," the prosecutor said gently, using my new legal name. "Can you tell the jury what happened on the night of February 14th?"

For forty-five minutes, I spoke.

I didn't cry. I didn't break. I laid out every punch, every kick, every degrading insult, and the freezing horror of lying beneath the Hudson overpass while Richard’s voice echoed in my ears, calling our daughters a curse. I described the frostbite that almost took their limbs, the agony of childbirth on a concrete floor, and the cold-blooded calculation of a man who traded his family for poker chips.

When the prosecutor played the audio recording of Richard offering the babies to the Thorne syndicate, two members of the jury openly wept in disgust.

Richard’s defense attorney didn't even attempt to cross-examine me. There was nothing to defend.

The jury deliberated for precisely forty-two minutes.

"On the count of attempted aggravated murder: Guilty. On the count of human trafficking: Guilty. On the count of conspiracy to commit murder: Guilty. On the count of child endangerment: Guilty."

The judge—a formidable woman with forty years on the bench—peered down at Richard over her spectacles with pure contempt.

"Richard Miller," the judge declared, her voice ringing like a funeral bell through the packed courtroom. "In all my years on the federal bench, I have rarely encountered a human being so devoid of basic human decency, so cowardly, and so thoroughly rotten to the core. You discarded an innocent mother and newborn infants into the freezing winter to save your own pathetic skin."

The judge slammed her gavel down.

"I sentence you to life imprisonment without the possibility of parole, to be served at ADX Florence Supermax. May God have more mercy on your soul than you showed to your daughters."

Richard collapsed onto the defense table, wailing hysterically as federal marshals dragged him backward toward the holding cells. He looked at me one last time, screaming my name, begging for pity.

I didn't blink. I simply watched him disappear behind the heavy steel doors, gone forever from our lives.

When I walked out of the courthouse, the steps were flooded with cheering crowds and flashing cameras. Standing at the bottom of the grand granite stairs, waiting beside his armored limousine, was Elias.

He wasn't hiding in the shadows anymore. He stood in the bright spring sunshine, wearing a navy three-piece suit, his eyes fixed solely on me.

I walked down the steps, past the microphones, past the security detail, and threw myself into his waiting arms. Elias caught me, lifting me off the ground, spinning me around as the crowd erupted into applause.

"It's over," I whispered into his neck, tears of pure triumph finally spilling over my eyelashes. "It's finally over."