I knew it.
I fucking knew it.
"Pull back to the main hall!" I order, my voice sharp over the gunfire. "We’re regrouping."
My men move with trained efficiency, laying down cover fire as we push back the way we came. Rico drags Matteo’s body with him, his expression like granite, unreadable.
We make it back to the villa’s grand entrance, taking cover behind a row of heavy columns. Gunfire still echoes through the halls, but it’s distant now, contained.
"How many?" I demand.
"More than expected," Rico grits out, reloading. "At least fifteen, maybe more. All stationed deep inside, waiting."
Waiting for us.
He knew we were coming. He didn’t just retreat—he set the stage, let us walk straight into his goddamn trap.
"Matteo’s gone," Silva says quietly.
I nod once, jaw locked. We don’t have time to mourn.
"We have to break their formation," I say, scanning the space. "Cut them off before they push us out."
Silva exhales hard, but nods. "You got a plan for that?"
I do.
But I don’t like it.
The only way to end this is to go deeper—to push past their defenses, split their forces, and make sure they never walk out of here alive. It means taking risks. It means going exactly where they want us to.
It means I have to play into the trap to spring it.
36
SOFIA
We’re still waiting on updates when one of the men turns to Valentina and me, his face white.
The room is suspended in worry, the glow of the computer screens flickering over sharp angles and tense faces. The low hum of radio chatter crackles in and out, broken by bursts of static, the undercurrent of something inevitable pressing into the space between us.
Then there’s a sharp ping.
A new transmission flashes across the screen, an encrypted message filtering in from an unexpected source. One of the men nearest to the console frowns, leaning forward. "We just got a priority alert from a contact inside the department," he mutters, already decoding it. His fingers fly across the keys, the message unraveling in pieces, line by line.
I’m at his side in an instant, eyes locking onto the data as it loads. A report. Shipment records. Dates. Locations. And then?—
I feel the blood drain from my face.
"When?" My voice is taut, barely above a whisper.
The man swallows, scanning the details. "Two days ago. A classified shipment passed through customs, rerouted undera falsified manifest. Destination—" He hesitates, his face tightening. "Lombardi villa."
A strange ringing fills my ears. My pulse slams against my ribs as I scroll through the attached images, each one making my stomach sink further. Large crates. Weight tallies far exceeding what would be standard for weapons. A second shipment that never left the docks, flagged by port authorities—but no action had been taken.
"Jesus," Valentina breathes beside me, tension bleeding into her tone. "What the hell are we looking at?"
I force myself to speak, my throat tight. "Not weapons." I drag a shaking finger along the screen, highlighting the cargo details. "Explosives. Military-grade."
