Page 102 of Knot Their Safe Haven
"Tell me about the twins," she requests.
"What do you want to know?"
"Everything. Starting with how one handles two Alphas who share everything."
"Carefully." I downshift through a hairpin turn, enjoying how her hand tightens on my thigh. "They're intense individually, overwhelming together. But they're also brilliant, loyal, and surprisingly romantic when they want to be."
"Romantic mobsters?"
"The family business requires certain... flexibility with traditional morality. But yes, they're absolutely the type to murder your enemies then bring you flowers."
"That's actually sweet, in a demented way."
"That's the twins perfectly—sweet in demented ways."
My phone buzzes with what's definitely a threat disguised as emoji from Dante.
"We're about to have so much chaos," I warn her. "The twins don't do subtle. They're going to worship you loudly and publicly."
"After twenty years of being hidden?" She squeezes my thigh. "Loud and public sounds perfect."
I glance over, catching her profile against afternoon sun. Silver hair catching light, leather and silk, confidence earned through survival—she's everything we've been waiting for without knowing we were waiting.
"Hey, Alexis?"
"Yeah?"
"Thanks. For today. For the racing and the kissing and not letting me sit still long enough to panic about everything changing."
"That's what pack does," I echo her earlier words. "We keep each other moving forward."
"Even at dangerous speeds?"
"Especially then. Where's the fun in safety?"
Her laugh fills the Bentley as we race toward the airport, toward the twins, toward whatever chaos comes next.
The adventure is just beginning.
TWIN FLAMES
~VELVET~
The private terminal's valet approaches with practiced efficiency, hand already extended for keys, but Alexis waves him off with the kind of casual authority that comes from never having requests denied.
"We won't be long. Our arrivals are already here."
She pulls out her phone, hitting a contact with one manicured finger. "We're outside."
The automatic glass doors haven't even finished her sentence before they're sliding open, and my brain short-circuits.
I saw them in Germany—glimpses through medical haze, shadows at the edge of consciousness while machines beeped and doctors murmured. But that was survival mode, my brain cataloguing only necessary information: safe, pack, protecting.
This is something else entirely.
Dante and Damon Corleone walk like they're on a runway in Milan, not emerging from a regional airport in mountain country. Matching Tom Ford suits—charcoal with subtle pinstripes that catch afternoon light—tailored to emphasize shoulders that speak of gym dedication and genetics that won the lottery. They're pulling Rimowa luggage in aluminum thatcosts more than most mortgages, the cases gliding soundlessly across pavement.
Six-three, maybe six-four in the Italian leather shoes that probably required specific cows to die. Dark hair styled differently—Dante's swept back in controlled waves, Damon's artfully tousled like he just rolled out of someone's bed. The only color variation comes from their ties: Dante in deep burgundy that matches my camisole, Damon in midnight blue that shifts purple in certain light.
