He isn’t unleashing himself; he’s containing himself. Somehow that's worse. Because I know what full fury looks like. This isn't it, this is contained fury, this… this is wrath.
We approach the north ridge patrol, where we find four guards, bright halos on my night vision, scrambling in the dark, tapping useless radios.
Stephano lifts two fingers. Our soldiers split around him like he’s water and they’re trained to flow. He doesn’t hesitate. One moment, he’s standing beside me. Next, he’s gliding forward, a shadow swallowing another shadow. He snatches the first guard by the collar, a hand over the man’s mouth, and drags him into the shrubbery with a crack of vertebrae.
The other three whirl, guns up, panicked. They never get a chance to fire. Stephano is on them like a hurricane, slitting their throats before I even have a chance to step forward. He turns back to us, moving without anger. Without flourish. Without evenbreathing hard.
And I…
I admire him.
Not the brutality, that's familiar. No, what steals something from my chest is the utter control with which he moves, the calm. The exactness. This isn’t rage. This is craft.
"Holy fuck," Massimo mutters behind me. "You married that?"
"Jealous?" I whisper.
He snorts. "Terrified."
Stephano wipes his blade on a guard’s sleeve without looking back. Sasha meets my eyes and nods once in a show of respect toward my husband. That’s rare. He respects few men, none outside Russia.
But Stephano earns it with every lethal inch he moves.
Raf reappears from the dark, as casual as a man emerging from a shower. "One guard tower down. Two left."
Stephano nods. "We take the west side first. They’ll bottleneck there once they realize we’re inside. Sasha, left flank. Oksana—" I raise a brow. He corrects himself before finishing what he was about to say. "Right flank."
Better.
I move.
The closer we get to the villa, the thicker the tension becomes, like humidity pressing against my bones. Gunfire crackles somewhere below, followed by shouts and footsteps scrambling for higher ground.
"They’re regrouping," Massimo whispers.
"They’re panicking," I correct.
"Good."
We round the terrace garden, a narrow choke-point lined with bougainvillea vines and decorative stone pillars. Perfect place for an ambush.
Stephano slows. I know that stance. He’s sensing something.
Suddenly, a single guard charges out of the dark, blade raised.
I barely lift my gun before Stephano steps in and disarms the man with a wrist twist so clean it looks choreographed. A palm strike to the sternum.
The guard collapses, wheezing. Stephano knocks him out with the butt of the gun, silent as a ghost.
"Not bad, Conti," I whisper.
He glances at me over his shoulder.
"Trying to impress you," he murmurs back.
My stomach flips. "It's working," I admit.
Massimo groans. "Please shoot me."
