Page 148 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
The wires tremble beneath my touch, delicate as spider silk, each one a thread in a web that could unravel in an instant. One wrong move, and I won’t get a second chance.
I close my eyes for a brief second, inhaling sharply through my nose, pushing down the fear clawing at my ribs.
Then I get to work.
My hands move quickly, steady despite the rush of adrenaline flooding my veins. I trace the main circuit, following the power source to its origin, searching for the fastest way to disarm the system. I recognize some of the wiring—military-grade, sophisticated, designed for controlled demolition. But the Lombardis are sloppy. They set this up in a hurry, and that’s my only advantage.
I pull a knife from my belt, slipping the blade beneath the primary fuse, cutting just enough to sever the connection without triggering the backup failsafe.
A tiny spark flares, then dies.
One down.
I work my way across the panel, severing each trigger point carefully, my heartbeat a relentless rhythm against my ribs. Every second stretches into eternity, the distant echoes of gunfire and shattering glass reminding me of just how little time I have left.
Marco is still out there.
I grit my teeth, pushing past the ache in my fingers, the tremor of exhaustion creeping in. My vision blurs for a split second, but I blink hard, forcing myself to focus. Almost there.
A final wire, a deep red coil wrapped too tightly around the last trigger point. The master detonator.
My throat tightens.
I know what this means.
Even if I disable the rest, this one could still go off. And I don’t know if I can reach Marco before it does.
A crack echoes through the villa—a structural collapse, somewhere nearby. Dust spills from the ceiling, the walls vibrating with the force of the battle raging outside this room.
I don’t have time to think.
I have to finish this.
My fingers close around the last wire.
And I cut.
The final wire snaps beneath the blade, curling like a severed nerve. The red coil unspools, lifeless.
But nothing happens.
The panel flickers, the armed triggers still glowing, still active. My breath hitches. I scan the mess of wires, hands shaking as I try to find the right connection, the one that will kill the system for good.
My stomach twists.
It’s still live.
Panic flares through me, sharp and cold. I must have miscalculated—must have thought I was cutting the right circuit when I wasn’t even close. I reach for another wire, trying to make sense of the tangled mess before me. If I can just?—
The door explodes open.
The force of it sends a tremor through the unstable walls, dust and bits of plaster drifting from the ceiling. I whirl, my pulse slamming against my ribs.
Vittorio Lombardi stands in the doorway, his presence crackling with fury.
"You bitch."
The word rips through the room, low and venomous. He’s not just angry. He’s seething.
