For a split second, I don’t breathe. I don’t move.
I stare at the mess of deactivated circuits and dead wires in front of me, my brain scrambling to process the fact that it’s over—that it worked.
The detonator flickers, its once-glowing interface blinking out into nothing.
The bombs are useless now.
A harsh exhale rattles out of me, but I don’t let myself collapse—not yet. My muscles are coiled tight, adrenaline still burning in my veins. Because I know it’s not over until we get the hell out of here.
I whip around just as Marco steps closer, his gun still clenched in his bloodstained hand. His chest rises and falls heavily, his jaw set tight. Vittorio’s body lies between us, motionless, eyes forever frozen in shock.
It’s over.
At least, this part is.
Marco meets my gaze, and for a moment, we just stand there, breathing, caught between survival and the weight of what we’ve just done.
Then he moves.
In two strides, he’s at my side, his hands gripping my arms, checking me over, his dark eyes scanning for injuries.
"Are you hurt?" His voice is rough, frantic in a way I’ve never heard before.
I shake my head quickly. "No. I—I got the last one. The bombs won’t go off."
Marco’s eyes flick past me to the disabled detonator. His fingers tighten, his grip unsteady, as if the adrenaline still hasn’t left his body.
For a moment, I think he’s going to say something—something more than just good job or let’s go.
But then, from outside—gunfire.
My heart stops.
Marco’s head snaps up, his entire body shifting instantly into fight mode. He yanks me behind him, his gun raised again, his posture rigid.
I whip my head toward the door, listening, waiting. But the gunfire isn’t close. It isn’t inside the villa.
It’s outside.
"Salvatores," Marco mutters, reading the situation faster than I can. "Cleaning up the last of them."
The Lombardis have lost. And they know it.
Marco exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders back, the tension in his body refusing to fade. Blood streaks his skin, sweat glistens along his temple, his chest rising and falling in steady, measured breaths. He’s just taken down Vittorio Lombardi, just survived a war that could have destroyed everything.
And yet?—
His hands are still on me.
Even as the world outside collapses, even as dust settles over the ruins of an empire that no longer exists, he won’t let go.
I swallow, my throat raw. "We should go."
His grip tightens for a fraction of a second. Then, with a slow nod, he releases me.
"We’re leaving."
We.
