He ducks back, face spattered with someone else’s blood. “Push forward—we can’t get pinned down here!”
We surge as one, crossing the width of the ballroom to find better cover behind the stage.
Raf is all precision—each shot placed like he’s drawing lines on paper. Miko is thunder, blasting through bodies and walls alike. I’m the storm that follows, slamming a man into the floor hard enough to feel bone snap under my fist. Blood spatters across my shirt, but I barely register it.
“Stairs!” Cassio shouts from behind us, voice sharp with urgency. He points with his barrel toward the winding staircase where shadows move.
I don’t think. I charge. My blade flashes, biting into flesh. A man collapses, gurgling, as another swings a knife at me. The blade grazes my chest—sharp, hot—but I don’t flinch. Not now. The pain is nothing compared to the rush flooding my veins. I slam my elbow into his throat, feel his windpipe crush under the blow. He drops like a stone.
“On your left!” Miko’s shout cuts through the chaos.
I pivot, just in time to catch the barrel of a gun aimed at my head. I wrench it away, bring my knife up, and silence the bastard with a clean slice.
“Clear the hall!” Raf barks, his voice raw.
We storm room by room, boots pounding over broken marble and glass. Men fall under our fire, their shouts echoing off the ruined walls. It feels endless—blood, smoke, gunfire—but slowly, methodically, we take them down.
By the time the last shot fades, the silence is deafening.
I stand in the wreckage, chest heaving, knuckles dripping crimson. My cheek burns faintly where a bullet grazed me, but the beast inside me is still roaring, and I hardly notice. Not now. Not with adrenaline still singing in my blood.
Miko lowers his gun first, sweat dripping down his temples. He scans the hall, jaw tight. “Clear.”
Raf steps over a corpse, eyes narrowing at the carnage. “Welcome home, boys.”
We all fall quiet at that.
The house is ruined—walls scorched, floors shattered, bodies strewn like discarded dolls. But it’s ours.
And it feels like victory.
Miko nods in my direction. “You’re bleeding,” he points out.
I glance down at my chest, where the fabric of my shirt has been neatly cut. Blood stains the frayed edges, but it doesn’t hurt. I shrug. “I’ll live.”
With a grunt, Miko drops the subject, and he and Raf get to work giving orders, organizing the combined Italian and Russian forces, tasking them with clearing the bodies, and sending scouts for any potential lingering threats around our newly reclaimed home.
It’s close to midnight when we finally leave the estate behind, posting guards to hold down the ruinous fort. My body feels like lead, every step weighed down with exhaustion, but it’s a good weight. The weight of victory. Of survival.
We’re filthy, blood-soaked, bruised—but we’re alive, and the house is ours again.
By the time we reach Miko’s home, the lights inside are glowing warm against the night. Through the glass, I can see Anika, pacing in the foyer. No matter how late the hour, she always stays up to see him come home. And as soon as we step through the door, she rushes Miko, throwing her arms around his neck as she buries her face against him.
Miko sweeps his wife’s feet off the floor in a passionate embrace, revealing Evi just beyond them.
I should be used to it by now. For the past week, every time I’ve dragged myself home with blood on my hands, she’s been there, hovering near the door like she’s waiting for me, always steady, always patient. She doesn’t demonstrate the same level of anxiety as Anika. Worry doesn’t widen her doe eyes or crease her delicate features. She doesn’t seem to hold breath, like Anika, until she can see that I’m okay.
But still… it does something to me.
My chest tightens, my heart stumbling in its rhythm when her face lights up the moment she sees me. It’s radiant, hopeful, a smile that could cut through smoke and the darkest midnight. And for a moment, I forget the blood drying on my skin, the ache in my bones. Because she doesn’t stay up each night waiting for all of us. She’s waiting for me.
I’ve never been the charming twin. I’ve never been the Chiaroscuro brother women smile for. That was always Raf’s role, or our older brother Leo—the charisma, the easy grin, the glint in the eye that drew them in.
I’ve always been the shadow in the corner, the man they fear to approach. Strength earns respect, yes, but never affection. Yet here she is, looking at me like I’m the only man in the room.
Evi comes forward without hesitation, weaving between the others, her eyes never leaving mine. “I’m glad you made it home safe,” she says, her soft voice sincere.
I don’t know what to do with the way those words land in my chest. But it unleashes an emotion within me that I’m unfamiliar with and entirely unprepared for.
