Page 41 of The Underboss's Secret Twins

I’m underground.

A basement? A storage room?

My breath hitches.

No. A prison.

Panic grips my ribs, tightening like a vice, squeezing out the last remnants of fog clouding my thoughts. My pulse jumps, erratic, wild. A groan rips from my throat as I try to sit up. The ropes burn, cutting into the soft skin of my wrists. My ankles are bound too, crossed and secured so tightly I can’t twist my way free.

Fuck.

I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling through my nose, trying to pull air into my lungs even though it feels like there’s no space left inside me.

Think, Sofia.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Minutes? Hours? My body aches like it’s been longer, like I’ve been lying here for too damn long, motionless and helpless. The last thing I remember is the SUV, the blindfold, the sick amusement in my captor’s voice.

The realization slams into me like a freight train.

I’ve been kidnapped by the Lombardis.

A shudder rolls through me.

This isn’t some empty threat, not a warning or a game. I’m deep in their territory now, surrounded by men who don’t leave loose ends.

I jerk at the ropes again, twisting my wrists hard, ignoring the sting. If I can loosen them—if I can get one hand free?—

The sound of footsteps halts me.

They’re distant at first, muffled by thick walls, but they grow closer, more defined, heavy boots against concrete. My breathing stills, muscles locking as my ears strain for details.

One person. No, two. Maybe more.

The door—where is it? My head snaps toward the opposite wall, searching. There. A thick slab of metal, bolted shut, the kind meant to keep thingsin, not justout.

My throat goes dry.

This isn’t a ransom situation.

This is something else.

A trade, or worse, a trap meant to lure in he one person who means the most in the world to me. This is all my fault, all because of my foolishness. I’m leading a man to his death sentence.

And Marco?—

The thought hits me so hard it nearly knocks the air from my lungs.

Does he know?Does he know where I am? Or is he still pacing that goddamn estate, drinking whiskey, strategizing, treating me like an afterthought?

The doubt is a parasite, sinking its claws into me, whispering in my ear.

What if he doesn’t come?

A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow it down hard. I don’t have time for weakness. I don’t have time to fall apart, to let panic eat me alive. I need to be ready.

I flex my fingers, testing the circulation in my hands. My right wrist is raw, but the rope feels looser than before. If I keep working at it, if I time it right?—

The footsteps stop outside the door.