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Love and grief war inside me. I did this. I broke him.

I’m about to reveal myself by calling his name when I notice motion at the edge of my vision. Two Volkov snipers crawl behind a fuel drum, their rifles raised, their attention trained on Enzo.

My heart stops.

I react instinctively. My finger tightens around the trigger, and I pull it five times in a row. The violent shots crack against the air. The recoil jolts through my arm, and my ears ring.

When I lower the gun and realize I hit both men, I’m relieved.

Marco’s head jerks toward me, his eyes widening in recognition before going slack with shock. “Sophia?” His shout barely cuts through the din. “Stay back!”

No chance in hell.

Mud splashes under my boots as I run low, my breath burning in my chest. The air stinks of smoke and blood, a tang that sticks in my throat. Bodies litter the ground like discarded promises. Someone cries in Russian. Another gurgles a prayer no one will answer.

A cold, lifeless hand brushes my leg, and bile rises in my throat.

Keep moving.

Then, through the haze, I find him again. Kneeling behind a half-collapsed wall and reloading with his one good arm. Blood slicks the other, soaking through the shirt.

Enzo glances up, and for a second, the world stops. His eyes catch mine, and a kaleidoscope of fury, incredulity, and something dangerously close to relief swirls inside them.

I drop beside him, my chest heaving. The wall shudders as bullets punch through it.

“You shouldn’t be here.” A chill laces his voice, but his eyes betray him, drinking me in like he’s parched.

“You’re bleeding,” I manage, tearing fabric from my coat.

He grabs my wrist. “Go home, Sophia.”

“Not without you.”

He glimpses away first, a mix of victory and heartbreak washing over his face.

Gunfire rattles closer. I press my shoulder to his, breathing hard. Even through the frigid rain, I find his heat unbearable.

He mutters into his comm.

Marco chimes in, but static drowns his words. “Retreat lines. Explosives primed. Everything’s falling apart.”

“Enzo.” I press the ripped piece of cloth from my coat to his wound. “We can’t stay.”

“No.” His eyes scan the chaos. “We finish it.”

My stomach drops. Fear claws up my throat. He’s not retreating. He’s going to fight until he’s dead.

I spot movement near the fence. An armored black SUV. Then it clicks. Vincent’s files. The Volkov emergency channels tied to his old offshore funds. I could use that money to end this war.

“Cover me.” Before he can stop me, I start crawling through the mud again.

“Sophia!” His voice cuts through the flying bullets, but I don’t look back.

A downed Volkov soldier lies nearby, a phone clutched in his hand. The screen flickers. My fingers work quickly, trained by years of decoding my father’s emails and memorizing account numbers I was never meant to see.

The phone beeps, and when it connects, an impatient Russian answers. “Allo?”

“This is a liaison for Vincent Martinelli’s estate.” I adopt that sharp tone my father used when lying through his teeth. “There’s money waiting offshore for the commander in charge. Pull your men back, and it’s yours.”