Too late. The real trap’s at the monastery.

Too late. The real trap’s at the monastery.
Isla’s POV

The words hung in the air like a noose tightening around my throat, choking the breath from my lungs. “Maria... what have you done?” Angelo’s voice was a low thunder, reverberating off the stone walls of the monastery’s main room, but it cracked at the edges, betraying the storm raging inside him. His broad shoulders, usually a bastion of unshakeable strength, slumped ever so slightly as he stared at the frozen image on Paolo’s screen—the crib, the wailing baby who looked so achingly like Luca, down to the curl of dark hair peeking over the blanket’s edge. The timestamp mocked us: current, unyielding, a digital knife twisting in our guts.

I stood frozen beside Luca’s crib, my hand still hovering over his tiny form, feeling the rise and fall of his chest as if to anchor myself to reality. He was here—warm, real, his baby-soft skin flushed with sleep, oblivious to the nightmare unfolding just feet away. But that video... that child... it was like staring into a mirror of horrors. Twins? A clone? Or some grotesque Nest experiment, pieced together from stolen DNA like a patchwork monster? My mind reeled, flashes of the warehouse assault crashing back—the gunfire’s staccato rhythm, the metallic tang of blood, Alessandro’s terrified whispers about a “rebuilt” mother. And now this.

Sofia broke the stunned silence first, her voice cutting through like a blade, though pain etched her features as she clutched her bandaged shoulder. “Twins,” she repeated, leaning against the rickety table for support, her green eyes flashing with a mix of skepticism and alarm. “You’re telling me Maria popped out two Romano heirs and hid one? Or is this some sci-fi bullshit—Nest labs cooking up designer babies? Paolo, zoom in on that crib. Check for tells—deepfake glitches, anything.”

Paolo’s fingers flew over the keys, his glasses slipping down his nose as sweat beaded on his brow. The room smelled of stale air and tension, mingled with the faint coppery scent of Sofia’s wound and the gun oil from the crates Marco had cracked open earlier. Alessandro, still clinging to Angelo’s leg like a shadow, watched with wide, haunted eyes, his small frame trembling. The boy looked exhausted, his dirt-streaked face pale under the harsh overhead lights, but there was a curiosity there too—a child piecing together a family he’d only known through twisted tales.

“Enhancing now,” Paolo muttered, the screen flickering as algorithms sharpened the image. “No obvious deepfake artifacts—skin texture’s consistent, shadows match the lighting. But the baby... facial recognition gives a 98% match to Luca. Identical. DNA logs from Nest leaks mention ‘Project Phoenix’—Maria’s codename. Looks like they harvested eggs, sperm samples during her ‘reconstruction.’ Could be a clone, or...” He trailed off, glancing uneasily at Angelo. “Artificial gestation. Test-tube twin, accelerated growth? But that tech’s bleeding-edge, black-market stuff. Harlan’s got the funds, though.”

Marco, ever the grounded force, snorted from where he knelt by a crate, pulling out fresh magazines and slamming them into his rifle with mechanical precision. His leg wound had him favoring one side, but his movements were deliberate, a soldier prepping for war. “Doesn’t matter if it’s a clone, twin, or alien spawn,” he growled, his Italian accent thickening with frustration. “It’s leverage. Maria’s dangling it to draw you out, boss. Dawn at the old estate? That’s your childhood turf—riddled with memories, easy to trap. She knows you’ll come alone, but we won’t let you.”

Angelo’s jaw clenched, veins standing out on his neck like cords ready to snap. He set Alessandro down gently on a cot, covering him with a blanket from the supplies, his touch surprisingly tender for a man whose hands had dealt so much death. “She’s alive,” he said, more to himself than us, pacing the room like a caged lion, his boots echoing on the stone floor. “Burned, broken, but alive. And now this—another child? My child?” His eyes met mine across the room, dark and tormented, pleading for understanding. “Isla... I thought I ended her. The fire... it was supposed to be final. For betrayal, for the poison she spread. But if she survived, rebuilt herself into this... queen... what else has she taken from us?”

I crossed to him, my heart aching at the vulnerability cracking his armor—the king reduced to a man haunted by ghosts. My hands framed his face, thumbs brushing the stubble on his cheeks, feeling the tension thrumming beneath his skin. “We don’t know yet,” I whispered, my voice steady despite the fear clawing inside me. “But we face it together. No more secrets, no solo charges into the dark. Luca—our Luca—is safe. Alessandro too. If there’s another... we save them. Or we end the threat.”

He pulled me close, his arms enveloping me in that familiar heat, his chest rising and falling against mine in ragged breaths. For a moment, the world narrowed to us—the scent of sweat and gunpowder clinging to him, the solid thump of his heart syncing with mine. His lips found my forehead, lingering there as if drawing strength. “You’re my anchor, amore,” he murmured, his voice low and rough. “Without you, I’d drown in this.” His hands slid down my back, possessive and urgent, pulling me flush against him. The others averted their eyes—Sofia with a knowing smirk, Marco busying himself with gear—but Angelo didn’t care. He tilted my chin up, capturing my mouth in a kiss that was desperate, hungry, a clash of lips and tongues that ignited fire in my veins. His fingers tangled in my hair, angling my head as he deepened it, a low groan vibrating from his throat. Heat pooled low in my belly, my body responding instinctively, hips pressing against the hard ridge of his arousal.

“We don’t have time,” I gasped against his lips, but my hands betrayed me, sliding under his shirt to trace the ridged muscles of his abs, feeling the scars that mapped his violent life.

He nipped my lower lip, his breath hot on my skin. “We make time,” he rasped, echoing our earlier moment in the alcove. One hand dipped lower, cupping my ass through my pants, squeezing with that proprietary grip that always sent shivers racing through me. “To remember we’re alive.” He backed me against the wall, his body pinning mine, thigh nudging between my legs to create delicious friction. I arched into him, a soft moan escaping as his fingers found the hem of my shirt, slipping beneath to tease the lace of my bra, thumb circling my nipple until it pebbled under his touch.

Sofia cleared her throat loudly, breaking the spell. “As touching as this is,” she drawled, amusement laced with urgency, “dawn’s in three hours. Save the makeup sex for after we roast the zombie bitch.”

Angelo pulled back reluctantly, his eyes dark with promise, forehead resting against mine. “Later,” he whispered, a vow that sent heat flushing my cheeks. He stepped away, the mask of the mafia king slipping back into place. “Paolo—pull everything on the old estate. Blueprints, surveillance hacks. Marco, rally any loyalists nearby. Quietly. Sofia, rest up—you’re on point with Isla for recon.”

Alessandro stirred on the cot, his small voice piping up. “Papa... is the baby my brother? Like me?”

Angelo knelt beside him, his large hand dwarfing the boy’s shoulder. “Maybe, figlio. But we’ll find out. Sleep now. You’re safe.”

As the boy drifted off, Paolo’s laptop pinged again—another message. “Coordinates confirmed,” he said grimly. “But Nest chatter’s spiking—reinforcements mobilizing. And... wait, facial rec on the video baby. It’s not just a match to Luca—it’s identical down to birthmarks. Project Phoenix logs show Maria donated eggs post-fire. Inseminated with Angelo’s stored samples. Accelerated gestation—nine months compressed to three via tech. The ‘real heir’ is Luca’s genetic twin. Born in secret. Raised as leverage.”

My stomach dropped, bile rising. “She cloned our son? Twisted science to make a weapon?”

Marco loaded his rifle with a click. “Then we take him back. Burn the labs. End Maria for good this time.”

Sofia nodded, sharpening her knife. “And if it’s a trap? We spring it on our terms.”

Angelo stood, resolve hardening his features. “Dawn it is. But not alone. We go in hot.”

The hours blurred—gearing up, plotting routes through the fog-shrouded hills to the old Romano estate, a sprawling villa ruined by time and feuds, its gardens overgrown, walls crumbling but riddled with hidden passages Angelo knew like veins. Marco called in two trusted lieutenants—ghosts from the family, armed and silent. Sofia and I would flank, Paolo jamming signals from a mobile rig in the van.

As we loaded out, sirens wailed distant in the valley—cops? Nest hunters? The fog thickened, cloaking our departure like a shroud.

We arrived pre-dawn, the estate looming like a skeletal giant, windows dark eyes watching our approach. Marco took overwatch on a ridge, his scope sweeping. “Movement inside—guards, Harlan’s men. Maria’s there, central room. And the crib... confirmed.”

Angelo signaled the breach—flashbangs through windows, suppressed fire cutting down sentries. We stormed in, chaos erupting: bullets whizzing, knives flashing, blood spraying across faded tapestries. Harlan fell first, Sofia’s blade in his throat, gurgling defiance. “She’s... more than you know.”

We reached the nursery—a twisted sanctuary of cribs and monitors. Maria waited, scars gleaming under chandelier light, a pistol trained on the wailing baby. “Angelo,” she sneered, her voice a rasp from fire-damaged vocals. “You burned me, but I rose. This heir—our perfect son. Luca’s twin. Join us, or lose them all.”

Angelo raised his gun, but hesitated—old love? Guilt? I didn’t wait. My shot rang out, grazing her arm, disarming her. She lunged, feral, but Sofia tackled her, knife poised. “End it, boss.”

Maria laughed, bloodied. “Too late. The real trap’s at the monastery. Paolo’s a plant. Luca’s already mine.”

Horror struck. Angelo roared, snapping her neck with ruthless efficiency. But as we grabbed the twin—crying, identical to Luca—Paolo’s line went dead. Sirens closed in.