Page 117 of The Underboss's Secret Twins

Because of me, because I’m sitting beside him, bruised and shaken, wrapped in his goddamn blanket, and he doesn’t know if he should go. I reach out before I can overthink it, placing my hand on his arm. His muscles are rigid beneath my fingers, the heat of his skin radiating through the fabric of his shirt. He turns his head slightly, just enough for our eyes to meet.

"Go," I say softly.

He stares at me, searching my face, like he’s waiting for something—hesitation, doubt, fear.

But I’m not afraid.

Not of him.

I squeeze his arm gently. "Do what you have to do. I’ll be okay."

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His fingers flex against his knee. For a second, I think he’s going to argue, that he’ll insist on taking me somewhere safer first, on making sure I’m under lock and key before he handles Mancini.

But then something in him shifts.

His shoulders ease—just slightly. His expression doesn’t soften, but the storm in his eyes dims just enough for me to see something else beneath it.

My chest aches because I know what is, and feel it acutely for him, too.

He exhales slowly, then reaches for something near his feet. A second later, he presses a flask into my hands.

I blink at it, momentarily thrown. It’s warm, the heat seeping through the metal.

"Drink." His voice is quiet, but firm.

I unscrew the cap hesitantly, and the scent of chamomile drifts up, tinged with honey and something richer, spiced. It’s not just tea—it’s the kind of thing you drink when your body is weak, when your bones ache, when the world has been too much.

He thought ahead.

Even in the middle of chaos, in the middle of hunting down a man who betrayed him, in the middle ofthis, he thought about me.

I take a slow sip, letting the warmth settle deep in my chest.

Marco watches me, his gaze unreadable.

I clear my throat, gripping the flask tighter. "You knew I’d be cold."

"You’re always cold," he mutters.

A small, startled laugh escapes me. It shouldn’t. Not after everything that’s happened tonight. But the corner of Marco’smouth twitches, just for a fraction of a second, and the space between us shifts into something absurdly close to normalcy.

I look away first, fixing my eyes on the dark blur of trees beyond the car window. The heat from the tea lingers, pooling in my stomach, quieting the tremor still lingering in my limbs.

Marco reaches for the door handle, and instinct kicks in—I want to grab his sleeve, want to keep him here just a little longer. But I don’t.

Instead, I grip the flask and say, "Be careful."

He pauses, then nods once as he steps out of the car. Just outside, he hesitates once more, his body half-turned toward the tree line, but his attention is still on me. I can feel it in the way his stance tightens, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s debating staying.

But he can’t.

He has unfinished business with Mancini, and we both know it.

"Sofia," he murmurs. "Let my men take you home."

Home.

Once, I would have balked at the idea, reminded him that his estate was his home, not mine. That I didn’t belong in his world.