Of course, it is. Vittorio wouldn’t make it that easy.
I grit my teeth.
"There should be a failsafe?—"
"Got it," she says, reaching into the tangle of circuits. "There’s a manual override."
She yanks the lever. The timer flickers—slows—but doesn’t stop.
I exhale sharply. Not good enough.
Vittorio laughs again.
And then, he plays a last, desperate hand.
One second, he’s limp beneath me, barely breathing, blood painting the floor beneath his head. The next, his hand snaps out, grabbing at my wrist.
I lurch back, but his grip clamps down like a vice, his fingers digging into my skin, trying to twist me off balance. A broken laugh wheezes from his throat, his body trembling with the effort it takes to fight me.
"You think killing me will fix anything?" he rasps. His lips curl, teeth stained red, voice raw with hate. "You think this ends with me?"
I wrench free, slamming my forearm against his chest. Hard. Enough to knock the breath out of him, to silence whatever smug remark was next.
"You're already dead," I growl.
He laughs again, a gurgling, sick sound. Then his head jerks sharply to the side.
My instincts scream.
I throw myself to the left just as gunfire erupts from the doorway.
The bullets tear through the air where I was kneeling seconds before. One slams into the floor, another buries itself in the control panel beside Sofia, sparks exploding from the impact.
She cries out, ducking low, shielding her face as debris flies past her.
Vittorio’s men.
I don’t know how many, don’t have time to count. I only see movement, shadows, the glint of raised barrels.
I fire back.
The gun kicks in my hand, the deafening roar ripping through the close space. One man drops instantly. Another stumbles, catching a bullet to the shoulder, slamming against the doorway as he curses in pain.
But it’s enough of a distraction.
Enough for Vittorio to lurch up from the floor, throwing his weight against me.
We hit the ground hard, my skull cracking against the floor, his full weight pressing down on me. I grunt, my grip on the gun loosening for half a second—just enough for him to knock it out of my hand.
The pistol skids across the bloodstained tiles, spinning out of reach.
And then his hands are on my throat.
Vittorio isn’t as strong as me, but he’s desperate. He pushes down hard, using the last of his strength to cut off my air, his thumbs pressing into my windpipe.
"You ruined everything," he snarls. His breath reeks of blood, his eyes burning with something wild and rabid. "You think you win? You don’t win. Not today. Not ever."
Dark spots burst in my vision. My lungs scream for air.
