Page 151 of Twisted Vows

My pulse thunders during the long pause that follows. “How much?” the Russian demands. Suspicious. Testing.

“Two million. Wire transfer. Account number follows once your men clear the docks.” I force confidence into my voice.

Another pause. Longer this time.

Then the voice issues clipped orders. Commands ripple through the radio chatter nearby. Men shout and retreat. Vehicles drive off.

It worked. Somehow, it worked.

The gunfire falters, fading into scattered pops. Then silence reigns, broken only by the crackle of flames.

Relief swells, and I devolve into half laughing, half crying. Enzo stares, his eyes narrowed, disbelief etched deep. “What did you do?”

“Negotiated,” I say, breathless. “Like a proper Benedetti.”

He huffs…half growl, half laugh. “You’re insane.”

“Maybe,” I shoot back while crawling toward him. “But we’re alive.”

He shakes his head, wiping blood from his jaw. The faintest ghost of a smile touches his mouth. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“I had to.”

The words hang, trembling, too heavy and too true.

He winces and tries to stand. I slip under his arm and take his weight, his warmth seeping through my soaked clothes.

Thick, ghostly smoke rolls low across the clearing. From the tree line, Marco waves and shouts something about extraction.

Enzo leans on me as we limp forward, his hand finding the back of my neck in a soft gesture of gratitude.

The firelight behind us burns high, turning the dawn sky orange. The air smells of endings and beginnings all tangled together.

Enzo murmurs into my hair. I don’t catch the words, but it sounds like my name.

And for one small, stolen heartbeat, beneath the ruin, the blood, and the smoke, this feels like love again.

We head away from the main road and find a rundown motel about a mile away from the gunfight. The owner doesn’t ask questions as I dump the cash from my purse onto his counter.

We’re taken into a hall with a half-collapsed roof and walls streaked with moss. The scent of damp stone clings to everything. It’s a miracle the building’s even still standing.

When the man opens the door to a room, Enzo stumbles through the threshold first. The moment his body hits the floorboards, the thud sounds wrong. Too final. Instinct kicks in. I wrap my arms around him before he crumples completely. He’s heavy, all muscle and exhaustion, and too warm. Always too warm.

Blood slicks my fingers, seeping through the black of his shirt and blooming crimson like a secret. “Don’t you dare.” I’m threatening him and maybe God too.

He tries to push himself up. Fails. His breath comes out ragged, animalistic. “You shouldn’t have come.”

“You’re welcome.” I scoop him up and drag him toward a wall. “Next time, I’ll send flowers.”

The sarcasm breaks the tension between us, and he graces me with a flicker of an almost-smile before another wave of pain hits him. I tear open his shirt. The wound isn’t fatal. Deep, yes. Clean. He’ll live. Unless he decides not to.

The sight of him stills me. Even bleeding, he’s infuriatingly beautiful, with his skin streaked with red and dirt, his veins corded, his jaw tight enough to break. He’s a god standing in ruin, and he doesn’t even know it.

I place a cloth on his shoulder. “Keep it there.”

He recoils, a low growl escaping his throat. “It was a bad idea to come.”

“I couldn’t let you die.” My voice cracks.