We'll take it back.

We'll take it back.
Isla’s POV

Sofia chuckled weakly from the back, her voice strained but laced with amusement, cutting through the tension like a knife through fog. “Knights, huh? Does that make me the damsel in distress? Because if so, I’m rescinding my membership immediately. I’d rather be the dragon—scorching everything in my path.” She shifted with a hiss of pain, her emerald eyes gleaming with that unquenchable fire despite the blood seeping through her bandages. “Though, Marco, if you’re the knight, you’d better have a shining armor upgrade. Your current getup’s looking a bit battered—blood and all.”

Marco snorted, a deep rumble of laughter escaping as he adjusted her position gently, his scarred hand pressing the gauze firmer against her wound. “You? A damsel? Hell no—you’re the one who eats the knights for breakfast and spits out their bones for toothpicks. But if it makes you feel better, I’ll polish my rifle just for you. Maybe even throw in a helmet to protect that thick skull of yours.” His tone was light, teasing, but his eyes held a deeper worry as he monitored her breathing, the subtle way his thumb brushed her arm betraying the affection simmering beneath their banter. In our world, bonds like theirs—forged in gunfire and shared scars—were as close to love as many ever got.

The path narrowed further into a tunnel of overhanging trees, their leaves forming a dense canopy that blocked out the rising sun, plunging us into a green-tinged twilight dappled with fleeting shafts of light. Branches scraped the sides of the vehicle with a screech that set my teeth on edge, the SUV bouncing over exposed roots and jagged rocks that jolted us all, drawing another muffled whimper from Enzo. I hushed him softly, rocking the twins in my arms, their warmth a grounding force against the uncertainty gnawing at me. The air inside grew thicker, heavy with the scent of damp earth seeping through the vents as we delved deeper into the wilderness. My mind raced—flashbacks of the monastery’s inferno flickering like embers: flames devouring ancient stone, commandos rappelling from blackhawks like dark angels of death, Paolo’s final breath as he handed Luca over. His words haunted me: “Luca’s got her blood... but he’s yours. Raise him strong.” What did that mean for our future? A ticking bomb in our son’s veins, or just another shadow to banish?

Angelo navigated the trail with expert precision, his hands steady on the wheel despite the terrain’s protests. “We’re almost there,” he said, his voice cutting through my thoughts like a lifeline. “The valley’s just ahead. Gino and the old guard will have it secured—traps set, eyes on every approach.” He glanced back at Alessandro, who was now wide-eyed with a mix of fear and excitement. “Remember, figlio, in Nonna’s stories, the knights always won because they fought smart. Not just with swords, but with plans. That’s what we’ll do here.”

Alessandro nodded solemnly, his small chin jutting out in imitation of his father’s determination. “I can help, Papa. I’m good at hiding—I can be the scout!” His voice piped up with childish enthusiasm, a spark of normalcy in our fractured world that made my heart swell.

Angelo’s smile widened just a fraction, a rare glimpse of paternal warmth breaking through his armored exterior. “You’ll be the best scout we’ve got. But first, rest and eat. A knight needs his strength.” He reached back briefly, ruffling the boy’s hair, the gesture tender yet firm, grounding us all in the moment.

Sofia leaned her head against Marco’s shoulder, her smirk fading into a wince as another bump jarred her wounds. “Listen to the kid—he’s got more sense than half the men I’ve fought with. But Angelo’s right; we go smart this time. No charging in blind. Elena’s too slippery—white suit and all, vanishing like smoke. We need intel, allies. What about the old contacts in Rome? The ones your grandfather trusted?”

Marco grunted in agreement, his free hand checking the pistol at his hip out of habit. “Rome’s a risk—too many eyes, too many bought souls. But yeah, we could use reinforcements. Boss, you thinking of calling in the debt from the Lombardi crew? They owe us after that mess in Milan last year.”

Angelo’s jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing on the path ahead. “Lombardi’s fractured since the old man died—sons squabbling like dogs over scraps. But debts are debts. We’ll send a coded message once we’re underground. No phones, no traces. Couriers only.” His voice dropped lower, laced with steel. “Elena thinks she’s won by activating whatever’s in Luca’s blood. But she’s wrong. We’ll find a way to counter it—docs, specialists off the grid. No one touches my sons.”

The mention of Luca’s “trigger” sent a chill down my spine, my arms tightening instinctively around the twins. His skin had felt warmer earlier, a subtle fever that could be exhaustion... or something worse. “And if it’s already starting?” I asked quietly, my voice barely above a whisper, fear coiling in my gut like a serpent. “Paolo said it was hidden traits—poison in his veins. What if we can’t stop it?”

Angelo met my eyes in the mirror again, his gaze fierce and unwavering. “We will. I’ve got people—biotech experts who hate the Nest as much as we do. Ex-employees, whistleblowers. We’ll purge it, Isla. Whatever it takes. You’re not losing him. None of us are.” His words were a vow, etched in the same unyielding resolve that had pulled us through the warehouse escape, the club betrayal, the monastery blaze. In that moment, despite the blood and bruises, he was my anchor—the man who’d stormed hell for me, for us.

The forest finally parted like parting seas, revealing a wide, hidden valley nestled between sheer, mist-shrouded cliffs that rose like silent guardians. At its center stood a cluster of weathered stone buildings—ruins on the surface, overgrown with vines and moss that camouflaged their true purpose, but humming with subtle life beneath. Faint trails snaked through the grass, worn by careful feet, and I spotted the glint of hidden cameras nestled in the foliage, solar panels disguised as rocks powering the unseen network. Lights flickered on as we approached, one by one, like watchful eyes awakening to greet old allies—or warn intruders of the perils within.

Loyalists emerged from the shadows—hardened men and women in tactical gear, rifles slung over shoulders but lowered in recognition as they spotted Angelo’s familiar silhouette behind the wheel. Their faces were etched with the lines of long service: grizzled veterans with scars that told tales of loyalty unbroken, eyes sharp and assessing under brows furrowed from years of vigilance. One, the burly Gino with his salt-and-pepper beard and a tattoo of the Romano crest peeking from his collar, stepped forward as the SUV rolled to a stop, his voice gravelly with respect and a hint of relief that softened his rugged features. “Don Romano,” he greeted, clasping Angelo’s forearm in a firm, brotherly grip as we exited the vehicle. “We’ve been waiting since the first whispers came through the back channels—the Nest’s stirring up hell, activating assets left and right. We’re locked down tight: perimeter wired with trip mines and sensors, scouts on rotation every hour. No one’s getting in without a fight.”

Angelo clasped back, his presence commanding immediate silence among the group, the air thickening with the weight of his authority. “Good work, Gino. Status on the med bay? Supplies? We’ve got wounded—and the boys need checking.” His eyes flicked to Sofia, then to the twins in my arms, a protective edge sharpening his tone.

Gino nodded toward the central building, a squat stone structure that resembled an abandoned chapel but concealed reinforced entrances to the bunkers below. “Fully operational—doc’s on standby, ex-military surgeon with clean hands. Supplies for a siege: ammo crates stacked, rations for six months, generators fueled and redundant. And for the little ones? We’ve got cribs rigged, formula, even some toys scavenged from the village runs. Rosa’s got stew simmering inside—hot and hearty.” His gaze softened as it landed on Alessandro, who clung to my leg, peering out with wide eyes. “And for you, piccolo? A bed with extra blankets. Come, let’s get you all settled.”

Marco helped Sofia out next, supporting her weight as she limped forward, her face ashen but her chin lifted defiantly, refusing to show weakness even as blood trickled down her leg. “She’s tougher than she looks,” Marco quipped to Gino, but his voice held an edge of protectiveness, his arm around her waist steady and unyielding. “Took a couple hits back at the monastery—bullet to the thigh, graze on the shoulder—but she’s still got fight left. Just needs stitches and some shut-eye.”

Sofia rolled her eyes, leaning into Marco but waving off the fuss with a bloodied hand. “I’m not some fragile porcelain doll, boys. Just get me to a needle, thread, and preferably a bottle of whiskey to chase the pain. And Gino, tell me you’ve got real coffee brewing down there—not that instant swill. If I’m going to plot Elena’s demise, I need caffeine that packs a punch.” Her sarcasm was a shield, but the way she gripped Marco’s arm betrayed the toll the wounds had taken.

Gino chuckled, a deep rumble that eased the tension slightly, clapping Marco on the back. “For you, Sofia? The good beans—imported from Colombia, smuggled in last run. And whiskey? Aged twenty years. Come on, let’s get you patched. Doc’s waiting.”

I didn’t realize how tightly I’d been holding myself together—muscles knotted like twisted ropes, breath shallow and ragged—until my feet touched the solid, dew-kissed ground of the valley floor. The air here was crisp and invigorating, scented with pine resin, damp earth, and a faint hint of woodsmoke from hidden vents, a far cry from the acrid choke of the monastery’s pyre. My legs wobbled slightly from the adrenaline crash, but Angelo was beside me in an instant, one hand steadying my back as I stepped out with the twins cradled carefully in my arms, his touch warm and grounding through the thin fabric of my jacket. He didn’t say anything at first—didn’t need to. His presence was enough, a solid wall against the world’s relentless cruelties, his fingers lingering on my waist, thumb tracing a subtle, reassuring circle that sent a shiver through me despite the exhaustion. It was a silent promise: We’re here. We’re alive. We fight on.

Rosa, Gino’s wife—a sturdy woman with kind, weathered eyes that crinkled at the corners, callused hands that spoke of hard work and harder love, and a no-nonsense apron tied over her tactical vest—approached gently, her gaze softening at the sight of the children. “Let me take the older boy, signora,” she offered, her voice warm like fresh-baked bread rising in the oven, a comforting contrast to the cold efficiency of the loyalists around us. “Hot food inside—a hearty stew simmering with venison and roots, bread fresh from the stone oven. And a warm bath to wash away the night’s grime. He’ll sleep like an angel after, I promise.”

Alessandro hesitated, glancing up at me with those wide, trusting eyes, his small hand clutching my sleeve like a lifeline. “It’s okay, Isla-mama?” he whispered, the nickname he’d adopted since our worlds collided melting my heart anew, a reminder of how quickly he’d woven himself into our family tapestry.

I knelt to his level despite the ache in my limbs from the endless flight, brushing a smudge of soot from his cheek with my thumb, feeling the dirt crumble under my touch. “Yes, sweet one. Rosa’s family too—she’ll take good care of you. Eat something warm, rest your brave little heart. We’ll be right here when you wake, okay?” He nodded solemnly, taking Rosa’s outstretched hand, but not before hugging my leg fiercely, his arms tight around me like he feared I’d vanish.

“Protect the babies,” he said, his voice muffled against my pants, assigning me a mission with all the gravity a child could muster, his dark curls tickling my knee.

“Always, Alessandro,” I promised, my throat tightening with emotion, tears pricking my eyes. “With everything I have. Now go—dream of slaying dragons.”

As Rosa led him away, her arm around his shoulders, Gino directed Marco and Sofia toward the med bay entrance—a reinforced door hidden behind a false wall of ivy. “Doc’s got morphine if the pain’s too much,” Gino said to Sofia, who waved it off with a snort.

“Save it for someone who needs it. I’ll take the whiskey neat.”

Angelo and I followed, descending a set of worn stone steps into the bunkers proper, the air growing cooler and drier, carrying the faint hum of ventilation systems and the metallic tang of machinery. The corridors were narrow, lit by strung LED lights that cast long shadows, walls lined with crates of supplies—ammo boxes stamped with faded dates, medical kits, canned goods stacked high. Loyalists nodded as we passed, their murmurs of “Don Romano” and “Signora” a chorus of respect that bolstered my spirits.

In the med bay—a converted chamber with sterile white tiles, surgical lights glaring overhead, and shelves groaning under bandages, antiseptics, and instruments— the doc, a grizzled man named Dr. Vito with steady hands and a scar bisecting his eyebrow, was already gloved up. “Let’s see the damage,” he said briskly, helping Sofia onto the exam table. Marco hovered like a guard dog, refusing to leave her side.

“I’ll be fine,” she teased, but her voice softened as she squeezed his hand. “Go check the perimeter or something. Don’t need you fainting at the sight of blood.”

Marco crossed his arms, smirking. “As if. I’ve seen worse on you after bar fights. Just... yell if you need me.”

As they worked on Sofia—cleaning wounds, stitching with precise threads, her grunts of pain punctuated by curses in Italian—Angelo pulled me into a side alcove, his body shielding us from view. The twins stirred but settled as I rocked them, their soft breaths a lullaby. “You need checking too,” he murmured, his hand gently probing the graze on my arm from the monastery, his touch sending sparks despite the sting.

“It’s nothing,” I whispered, but leaned into him, inhaling his scent—sweat, gun oil, and that underlying musk that was purely Angelo. “Just... hold me for a minute.”

He did, his arms enveloping me, the twins between us like precious cargo. His lips brushed my forehead, lingering. “You were a warrior today, amore. Shielding them, fighting through the flames. I don’t deserve you.” His voice was rough, intimate, his hand sliding to my lower back, pulling me closer. Heat bloomed low in my belly, a familiar fire igniting despite the exhaustion—his body hard against mine, promising escape in each other when the world allowed.

“You do,” I replied, tilting my head to capture his lips in a brief, heated kiss that deepened for a moment, his tongue teasing mine, a spark amid the storm. “We deserve this—peace, family. We’ll take it back.”