I’ve seen many things in my life—cruel men, ruthless men—but nothing like this.
The rage in his eyes is feral, a hatred so complete it makes the air feel razor-sharp between us. He takes another step in, his gaze flicking to the explosives, the panel still armed, then back to me.
His lips curl.
"You think you’re so fucking clever," he growls, voice thick with contempt. "You think you can waltz in here, cut a few wires, and what—save the day?"
I swallow hard, reaching instinctively for my knife. But he moves faster.
His fist slams into the control panel. Sparks burst from the damaged wiring, an angry, crackling hiss. I flinch, stepping back as the heat licks at my skin, my heart pounding so loud I can hear it in my ears.
He laughs. A short, razor-edged sound.
"Look at you," he sneers. "Fucking shaking. Just like your mother did when my father slit her throat."
The words slice straight through me.
My breath catches. Everything inside me goes still.
He sees the flicker of recognition, the way my fingers tighten around the hilt of my blade, and his grin turns vicious.
"Oh, you didn’t know?" he taunts, tilting his head. "All these years, chasing ghosts, thinking you’d expose the truth? Thinking you’d be the one to burn us down? And you never even realized."
Rage detonates inside me, a scorching, all-consuming force.
I lunge.
But he’s ready.
Vittorio sidesteps at the last second, catching my wrist mid-swing. His grip tightens painfully, twisting my arm until the knife clatters to the ground. I strike out with my free hand, but he blocks me effortlessly, shoving me hard against the control panel.
The edge bites into my back. A sharp, crushing pain.
"You should’ve stayed away," he spits, his breath hot against my face. "You should’ve stayed the fuck away."
I don’t hesitate.
I drive my knee up—hard, aiming for his ribs. He grunts, his hold slipping just enough for me to wrench free. I twist, reaching for my knife?—
Too late.
The back of his hand cracks across my face, snapping my head to the side. My vision goes white-hot, pain bursting across my cheekbone. I stumble, catching myself against the console, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
His hands clamp around my wrists, forcing my arms up, his grip like a vice. He’s strong—too strong—but I refuse to make this easy for him.
I twist, aiming a sharp kick to his shin. He grunts, his hold loosening just enough for me to yank one hand free. I drive my elbow into his ribs, then turn fast, swinging my knife.
But he’s expecting it.
He catches my wrist mid-swing, twisting hard until the blade clatters to the floor. His fingers dig into my throat next, pushing me back against the panel, crushing the breath from my lungs.
I gasp, nails clawing at his wrist, trying to pry him off, but his grip tightens.
"Nasty little bitch," he hisses. "You and your fucking obsession with my family. Did you really think you could stop this?"
Dark spots bloom in my vision. My lungs burn.
Not like this.
