Page 38 of Twisted Vows

Matteo’s grip tightened on the wheel. "Then we don’t waste time."

The second the gates opened, the convoy tore through the night, the tires screeching against the road as they sped toward the western outskirts. Matteo’s focus was razor-sharp, his mind already calculating their next move.

"How many men?" he demanded.

Luca glanced at the screen tracking their target. "Six cars. Heavy security. He brought enough to keep her locked down but not enough to go to war."

Matteo’s lip curled, his grip tightening on the steering wheel. "That’s because he doesn’t think he has to. He thinks I’ll let her go. He thinks I’ll play by the rules."

Luca shot him a knowing look. "And will you?"

Matteo’s fingers flexed, his foot pressing harder against the gas pedal. The SUV growled as it surged forward, weaving through the sparse late-night traffic. "No."

Luca exhaled, shaking his head. "I figured as much. So what’s the play? Leonardo knows you’ll come for her. He’s expecting this."

Matteo’s jaw was tight, his thoughts running razor-sharp calculations. "He expects me to storm in, guns blazing. To treat this like a battlefield. That’s his mistake."

Luca frowned. "So what do you have in mind?"

Matteo’s smirk was anything but amused. "He took her because he thinks she’s leverage. That means he’s not planning to kill her right away. He wants something from me first. He’ll hold her, threaten her, try to use her to control me. But that’s where he miscalculated."

Luca arched a brow. "How so?"

Matteo’s gaze was cold, lethal. "Because I’m not coming to negotiate. I’m coming to end him."

Within minutes, the convoy was rolling out, engines roaring as they cut through the night like hunters chasing their prey. Matteo sat in the lead car, his gun resting on his thigh, his muscles coiled tight with something far more dangerous than anger—purpose.

He pressed harder on the gas, weaving between traffic, his mind a storm of calculations and bloodlust. Leonardo had taken the one thing Matteo wasn’t willing to lose. And if he thought for even a second that Matteo wouldn’t burn his entire empire to the ground to get her back, he had underestimated the wrong man.

Leonardo Marino had made the biggest mistake of his life.

Taking Isla from him had been a declaration of war.

And Matteo had every intention of ending it.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Matteo DeLuca was not a patient man. He was not merciful. And tonight, he was not interested in negotiations.

The convoy tore through the city, black SUVs cutting through the night like shadows hunting their prey. The world outside blurred past Matteo as he sat rigid in his seat, his fingers curled tightly around the grip of his gun. His mind was locked on one thing—Isla. They had taken her. Her father had taken her. And that was a sin he would not let go unpunished.

"We’ve got a confirmed location," Luca said from the front seat, his voice steady, but even he couldn’t hide the edge of tension in his tone. "Warehouse district on the west side. It’s one of Leonardo’s old distribution hubs."

Matteo exhaled slowly, his rage sharpening to something lethal. "Who’s inside?"

"About fifteen men, maybe more. Guard rotations are sloppy, but they’re expecting trouble. If she’s there, they’ll have her locked down."

Matteo glanced out the window, the street lights cutting across his face like streaks of fire. "Then we don’t give them time to react. We go in fast. We go in loud."

The men in the vehicle nodded. There was no hesitation, no fear. Matteo’s war was their war. And tonight, they would remind everyone why the DeLuca name was spoken in hushed, reverent fear.

The SUVs screeched to a halt just outside the warehouse, engines still humming as doors slammed open. Matteo was the first to move, stepping into the night like a predator scenting blood. His men fanned out, their movements efficient, weapons drawn.

Luca signaled the second team, positioning snipers along the adjacent rooftop. "We breach in sixty seconds. No one gets out unless they’re bleeding."

Matteo’s pulse was steady. He had been raised for moments like this, sharpened into something unrelenting by years of war. But this was different. This wasn’t just about power. This wasn’t just about sending a message.

This was about her.

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