Page 137 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
I reach for my radio, clicking it on. "Proceed with caution. They’re waiting for us."
A chorus of confirmations crackles back, but the tension in the air is thick enough to choke on.
I kill the engine, stepping out into the heavy dusk. The moment my boots hit the gravel, my men fan out behind me, weapons drawn, silent, and efficient. Every breath, every step is calculated. I move toward the gates, my senses sharpened to the finest edge.
Nothing about this feels right.
The Lombardis are reckless but not careless. They should be raining bullets on us, trying to hold their ground. Instead, the villa looms ahead, dark and still, as if daring us to come closer.
I don’t hesitate.
I raise my hand, signaling Silva and the others to move. They push forward, cutting through the eerie silence like phantoms. We sweep past the gates, boots crunching against the gravel driveway, eyes scanning every window, every shadow.
Still nothing.
"Check the perimeter," I order, voice low but firm. "No one makes a move until we know what we’re walking into."
Silva nods, disappearing into the dark with a small team. The rest of us advance carefully toward the main house, every instinct inside me bristling like a cornered animal.
Then—movement.
A shadow flickers behind a window on the second floor. A brief flash, gone in an instant, but I saw it. Someone’s there.
I lift my gun.
"Inside. Now."
We breach the front doors in a swift, controlled movement. The entryway is cavernous, high ceilings swallowing the last of the daylight, the faint scent of smoke clinging to the air. The place isn’t abandoned. Someone’s been here recently.
Still, no gunfire. No rush of men to intercept us.
We move deeper.
The house is an intricate web of hallways, grand staircases winding like serpents into the upper levels. The silence presses against me, thick and unnatural.
A trap.
It has to be.
I signal my men to split off into smaller groups, clearing each room methodically. If they want to lure us in, they’ll regret it. I’ve spent my entire life navigating war. They should’ve picked a better battlefield.
I move forward, my steps silent against the polished marble floors.
A door at the end of the hall is cracked open, a faint sliver of light spilling out.
I push inside.
The study is empty except for a single glass of whiskey left on the desk, its contents half-drunk, the ice melted into golden pools. Papers are scattered, maps of the city, notes scrawled in the margins.
This looks disorganized, but too…random. Almost as if someone made a last-minute decision to disappear, and wanted to be theatrical about it. I look around me for a long minute, allowing the pieces to fall together. My gut instincts are screaming—they knew we were coming.
They were ready for us.
And yet, they’re not here. So, what are they playing at?
My grip tightens on my gun, my pulse a steady, controlled rhythm.
They’ve moved. But where?
