I don’t hesitate. "Adriano, get it open.Now."
He rushes forward, a small device already in hand, his fingers flying over the keypad beside the door. The electronic lock is complex, but he’s better.
"Thirty seconds," he mutters.
I don’t have thirty fucking seconds.
Behind us, footsteps echo. More enforcers. More bodies standing between me and getting her out of here.
Dante takes up position beside me, reloading in a practiced motion. "How many, you think?"
I don’t answer. Doesn’t matter.
We’ll kill them all.
A singleclick.
The door unlocks.
I don’t wait for the green light. I don’t even wait for Adriano to step back.
I kick it open.
The room is small. Windowless. A single flickering bulb dangles from the ceiling, casting erratic, shifting shadows across the cold, concrete walls. And in the center of it all?—
Sofia.
She’s bound to a chair, her wrists raw from struggling against the restraints. Bruises bloom along her arms, her cheek. Her lips are parted slightly, her breath shallow, her dark eyes wide as they lift to meet mine.
And for a moment, everything else disappears.
The war raging beyond these walls. The gunfire. The bodies we’ve left behind. The bodies still waiting for us.
All I see isher.
I cross the room in three long strides, my hands already reaching for the ropes. They’ve tied her too fucking tight. My jaw clenches as I pull my knife from my belt, slicing through them with a single stroke.
The second her hands are free, she sways forward. I catch her, my arms locking around her waist, holding her against me.
"Sofia." My voice is rough, torn from somewhere deep. "It’s okay. I’m here. You’re safe now."
Her fingers clutch at the fabric of my shirt, weak but desperate. "Marco."
I tighten my grip, my palm cradling the back of her head. She’s shaking. The adrenaline is wearing off, leaving her exhausted, frayed. I can feel it in her breathing, the way it hitches unevenly against my chest.
But we don’t have time.
Footsteps—louder, closer.
I lift my head, my body moving before my mind even catches up.
"Dante, cover us," I order.
Dante is already at the door, his gun raised. "On it."
I shift, bending down slightly, slipping one arm beneath Sofia’s knees. Her breath catches as I lift her, but she doesn’t protest. Doesn’t argue. She’s too drained, too spent.
I carry her out, my gun still drawn, my trigger finger steady.
