Page 113 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
I don’t hesitate.
I break into a sprint, my boots pounding against the forest floor, branches whipping against my arms as I weave between the trees. The air is thick with dampness, the last remnants of the storm clinging to the underbrush. My lungs burn, my heart a brutal drum in my chest, but I don’t slow.
Ican’tslow down.
Ahead, I hear the snap of a branch, then something heavier—a struggle, the unmistakable shuffle of bodies, the scrape of boots against dirt.
Then—
Sofia’s voice. Muffled. Strained.
There is no thought, only the pull of instinct, driving me forward. I break into the clearing, my gun already raised, breath measured, hands steady, my body moving before my mind can catch up.
And then I see a Lombardi enforcer, standing over Sofia, his gun trained on her with the kind of stillness that means he’s already decided how this will end. She doesn’t move. Neither does he. The space between them is razor-thin, a moment stretched unbearably tight, balanced on the edge of something irreversible.
There’s no room for hesitation, no space for warning. My world narrows to the weight of the gun in my hands, to the way my muscles coil as I lift my arm. There is no sound, no breath, no time left to waste.
I pull the trigger.
The gunshot rends the night apart, a rupture in the quiet, absolute and final. There is no hesitation, no second chance—only the brutal certainty of impact. The enforcer jerks, a sharp breath snagging in his throat, his body twisting as if he might outrun fate itself. Blood spreads across his chest, dark and inevitable, and for a single, suspended moment, he stands there, caught between motion and collapse. Then his knees give, and he crumples to the ground, the weight of him swallowed by the earth.
Silence presses in, thick as oil.
Then—a gasp, shallow and jagged.
Sofia.
She is sprawled on the cold ground, her breath uneven, wrists bound, her lip cracked where blood beads along the split. The torn fabric of her dress clings to her shoulder, dirt streaking her cheek like a careless brushstroke. Yet her eyes, burning with an intensity that makes the night feel too small, find mine and do not waver.
I am already moving. There is no space for thought, no pause between fury and relief, no chance to slow the violent pull dragging me toward her.
I drop to my knees beside her, yanking a knife from my belt and slicing through the bindings around her wrists in one swift motion. The rope falls away, and before she can say a word, I pull her into me.
She stiffens. Just for a second. Then she exhales, her body sagging against mine, her arms slipping around my neck as I bury my face in her hair.
I breathe her in.
For a moment, I don’t care about anything else. Not the blood on my hands, not the bodies around us, not the fact that I was seconds away from losing her.
I close my eyes and hold her tighter.
"You okay?" My voice is rough, scraping against my throat like gravel.
She doesn’t answer at first. Her fingers clutch at my jacket, her breathing uneven, but she doesn’t push me away.
Then—soft, hoarse—"I don’t know."
Something in my chest cracks.
I pull back just enough to cup her face, tilting it up so I can see her clearly. Her skin is cold, her pupils blown wide with adrenaline, but she’s here. Alive.
I run my thumb over the corner of her mouth, tracing the smear of blood at her lip. My jaw tightens. "Did he?—"
"No." She shakes her head quickly. "He was waiting for backup. He didn’t have time to—" Her voice catches, and she swallows hard. "He just wanted to take me."
Take her.
My grip tightens on her, rage and helplessness twisting inside me like barbed wire. The Lombardis wanted her alive. I should be relieved by that fact, but I’m not. If they’d gotten their hands on her, if I had been even a second too late?—
