Page 37 of Knot Their Safe Haven (The Omega Rebellion Movement #3)

TWIN FLAMES

~VELVET~

T he 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 that costs 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.

But it's the synchronization that stops breathing altogether.

Every step mirrors the other, every gesture coordinated without consultation.

The way Dante adjusts his cufflink matched by Damon smoothing his tie.

How they both check phones simultaneously then pocket them with identical motions.

Two bodies operating with one consciousness, or at least practiced enough to fake it.

Everyone in visual range has stopped to stare.

The businessman fumbling with his rental car keys. The young omega with her parents, mouth hanging open. Even the security guard abandons his post to track their movement.

Because they're not walking toward the car or the building or some general destination.

They're walking directly to me.

Both sets of hazel eyes—gold-flecked brown that shifts green in sunlight—locked on my face like homing missiles. The intensity makes heat flood my cheeks, and I know I'm blushing before they've even reached us.

"Buonasera, Velvet.”

They speak in perfect unison, flanking me with precision that feels choreographed. Before I can respond—before I can even process that they're here, real, mine—they lean in from either side.

Two pairs of lips press against my cheeks simultaneously.

Warm, firm, lingering just long enough to be more than greeting but less than scandal.

My skin burns where they touch, and I catch their scents—Dante smells like leather and gunpowder with traces of espresso.

Damon is almost identical, but where Dante has gunpowder, Damon carries cordite.

Subtle difference unless you're paying attention, which my omega brain apparently is.

"Dante," the one on my right says, pulling back just enough to meet my eyes. "And this is where I'm supposed to be formal and respectful, but?—"

He cups my face with one large hand and kisses me properly.

Not a polite pressing of lips. Not a careful introduction.

Dante Corleone kisses like he's been starving for decades and I'm a feast he's finally allowed to taste.

His tongue sweeps into my mouth with confidence that should be illegal, one hand tangling in my silver hair while the other finds my waist. He tastes like expensive whiskey and promises, like danger wearing Armani, like every bad decision I've ever wanted to make.

My heart hammers against ribs that suddenly feel too small. Every nerve ending lights up as he explores my mouth with thorough dedication, swallowing the small sound I make when his teeth catch my bottom lip.

He pulls back, and I'm gasping, but there's no time to recover because Damon's already there.

Where Dante conquered, Damon seduces. His kiss starts gentle, almost questioning, then deepens when I respond.

His hand cradles the back of my neck, thumb stroking that sensitive spot behind my ear while he shows me exactly how different identical twins can be.

He tastes darker—espresso without cream, whiskey neat, something that might be chocolate or might be sin.

When he finally releases me, I'm completely gone. Face burning, lips swollen, brain offline except for the part screaming about being kissed senseless in public by twins who look like mob princes.

"Bienvenue dans notre monde, belle rebelle," they say together, switching to French with accents that suggest expensive education.

Welcome to our world, beautiful rebel.

Each takes one of my hands, and I'm grateful for the support because my knees are considering resignation.

"Was the ride smooth with that speed demon?" Dante asks, nodding toward Alexis.

"Stop being show-offs and get in the damn car," she huffs, but there's amusement beneath the irritation.

"Someone's jealous," Damon observes, not releasing my hand as we move toward the Bentley.

"Someone's about to be walking back to the cottage," she threatens.

They laugh—rich sound in stereo—while maneuvering me into the backseat with practiced ease. I end up between them, because of course I do, their bodies bracketing mine in the leather interior that smells like money and now, them.

Alexis slides behind the wheel, adjusting mirrors with sharp movements that suggest she's not actually annoyed, just processing.

"Why the performance?" she asks as we pull away from curious stares and probably phone cameras. "You could have just said hello like normal humans."

"Is that your normal greeting?" I manage, still tasting them both on my lips. "Not complaining, just... preparing myself."

They laugh again, and Damon's hand finds mine where it rests on burgundy leather.

"We greet our omega with enthusiasm," he explains. "Usually less public, but?—"

"But there were witnesses," Dante finishes. "Cameras. Probably someone from the financial papers who recognized us."

"And you're not worried about being associated with me?"

They turn to look at me with such synchronized confusion that it would be comical if not for the intensity in their eyes.

"Why would we be ashamed," they ask in perfect unison, "of being seen with the Rebel Queen who's stunning, saved thousands of omegas, and is hot as fuck?"

I gape at them, looking between identical faces that somehow radiate different energies despite shared features.

"See?" Alexis calls from the front. "When we say you're hot, we mean it. The twins just have zero filter about it."

"We should probably do formal introductions," Dante says, squeezing my hand. "Since you were mostly unconscious when we met before."

"I'm Dante. Older by seven minutes. I handle the legitimate side of family business—real estate, shipping, some light arms dealing that's completely legal in international waters."

"Damon," his brother adds. "I manage the parts that require more... flexibility. Construction unions, waste management, solving problems for people who can't go to police."

"Mob princes," I say, not a question.

"Guilty. Though technically we're more like mob kings now that grandfather's retired to Sicily." Dante's thumb strokes across my knuckles. "Does that bother you?"

"Should it?"

"Some people have moral objections to our methodology," Damon observes.

"I run illegal safe houses for traumatized omegas using money I launder through seventeen shell companies." The admission comes easily. "Moral high ground isn't really my terrain."

"Perfect woman," they breathe together.

"How do people usually tell you apart?" I ask, needing to understand the men who've claimed me.

"They don't," Dante admits. "We've been switching places since childhood. Even mother struggled sometimes."

"But you're different." The observation comes without thought. "Dante, you smell like gunpowder. Damon has cordite. Same base notes— leather and espresso —but the overtones are distinct."

The car goes silent except for engine purr and tire whisper on pavement.

"What?" I look between them, suddenly self-conscious. "Did I say something wrong?"

"Our mother was the only one who ever noticed that." Damon's voice carries something raw. "She said Dante smelled like the gun range, and I smelled like the demolition site."

"Clearly whoever you've dated before didn't try hard enough." The words come out sharper than intended. "It's not that difficult if you actually pay attention beyond surface cologne."

Their hands find mine simultaneously— Dante's right, Damon's left —and the gesture feels like something clicking into place. These men who share everything have lost the one person who could distinguish them, and here I am, silver-haired and nearly forty, casually noting what others missed.

A yawn escapes before I can stop it, the day's adrenaline finally catching up. Between racing sports cars and being kissed by Italian Alphas who look like sin in pinstripes, exhaustion hits like a sledgehammer.

"Rest," Dante murmurs, his arm sliding around my shoulders.

"We've got you," Damon adds, adjusting so I can lean against him comfortably.

My eyes drift closed, their scents wrapping around me like expensive blankets. The Bentley's movement is hypnotic—smooth acceleration, gentle curves, the occasional murmur of conversation above my head.

"She really can tell us apart," Dante whispers, and there's wonder in it.

"First omega who's bothered to notice," Damon agrees. "Most just see matching faces and assume we're interchangeable."

"You're already half in love with her, aren't you?" Alexis asks from the front.

"More than half," they admit together.

"Good. But behave yourselves. Don't overwhelm her on day one."

"Yes, Alpha," they chorus, and the formality is so unexpected I almost laugh.

"What? If we said 'yes ma'am' you'd kick our asses," Dante points out.

"Obviously," Alexis agrees. "I'm not a ma'am. I'm a terrifying Alpha female who races cars and hostile-takeovers companies."

"And makes excellent breakfast," I mumble against Damon's shoulder.

"She's listening," he says with amusement.

"She's always listening," Dante confirms. "Rebel Queens don't miss anything."

Their hands stay linked with mine as the car continues through mountain roads. Safe between men who could probably kill with their bare hands but hold me like spun glass. Protected by an Alpha female who drives like death is optional. Claimed by a pack that sees me clearly and wants me anyway.

The smile spreads across my face as sleep pulls me under properly.

This is what being chosen feels like.

Not hidden or qualified or complicated.

Just chosen. Publicly. Enthusiastically.

With kisses that taste like forever and scents that feel like home.