Page 149 of Twisted Vows

Marco catches me staring at the horizon and softens his voice. “You sure about this, brother?”

He looks tired. Older than his years. His hand rests on his gun like a comfort. Or a goodbye. Behind him, Vito checks his ammunition while Rocco loads the trunk with extra magazines. Four of us against twenty men, maybe more.

A suicide mission dressed up as strategy.

“No,” I admit. “But since when has that stopped us?”

Marco’s jaw works. He nods once. Slow. Resigned. “At least we go down swinging.”

“At least.”

He laughs under his breath.

Before we move out, I find the bottle of Macallan 25 at the back of the cabinet. Two fingers. The first swallow burns down my throat. The second hits the floor, a small dark puddle gleaming against the wood. Dante’s ritual before any mission.

As we drive out of the Benedetti estate, I spy Gabi standing by the window. The pale light stretches across the field, illuminating the weapons and the hard lines of the men around me.

Each mile feels lighter. Not courage. Acceptance.

By the time we reach the Volkov compound’s fence on Staten Island, the world has gone perfectly still. No wind. No birds. Just the rhythmic drip of rain on metal and the faint hum of impending war.

I glance once at the men behind me. Marco’s steady, Rocco’s grinning, and Vito’s whispering a prayer he doesn’t believe in.

“Let’s finish this.”

The gate creaks open, and early light touches my skin, blanketing the chill with warmth. The glow feels almost like absolution.

Almost.

And then we descend into whatever hell awaits on the other side.

Chapter 31

Sophia

The sky above Staten Island is a dirty purple, a sign of both storm and gunfire. Thick, black smoke billows from the compound, flames licking through like orange veins. The Volkov family resides here.

Izzy’s voice rolls through my mind like a broken record. “Gabi betrayed him to the Russians.”

The thought burns hotter than the chaos ahead. Between one heartbeat and the next, the phone went dead. The call no longer matters. Only reaching Enzo before he’s completely devoured by the earth does.

With my dirty, wild hair and eyes that seem too aged for the young skin they inhabit, I barely recognize the face in the rearview mirror. I’m not the kindergarten educator. Not the innocent one. I’m something different now. Stronger, influenced by Enzo.

Half a mile away, I hop out of the vehicle, grabbing Enzo’s gun from the passenger seat beside me as I go. A memory pierces my mind… His voice low behind me, his hand on mine, and his breath warm at my ear. “Steady. Control the recoil, not the fear.”

Control the recoil, not the fear. Right. Let the fear fuel me instead. The rain’s getting heavier. It beats down on my baseball cap. Water has soaked through my clothes already, the rain cold enough to burn. It’s okay, though, because nothing matters except getting to him before the world extinguishes the flames that Vincent lit.

I’m a few feet away from the house when gunfire erupts like fireworks. Men scream in Russian.

My heartbeat syncs with the mayhem.

I crouch behind a chain-link fence, sinking my knees into the mud. Enzo’s guys huddle close to the main structure. Marco’s voice cuts through the noise, his orders sharp and relentless. Though blood runs down his sleeve, he doesn’t even flinch.

And then…him.

I glimpse Enzo racing past me, his shirt torn and dark with blood. He clutches a firearm and sidesteps an assailant that bursts through the door beside him, cracking the man’s skull with the gun butt. The impact echoes with a hollow roar.

Seeing him like this, so beautiful and broken and utterly alone, hurts.