Page 5 of The Underboss's Secret Twins

After an hour of relentless thinking, the only thing I do is make a phone call. Another hour later, that phone call results in Detective Enrico Marino standing in my kitchen, arms crossed, his jaw locked so tight I half expect his teeth to crack under the pressure.

The cozy kitchen light does little to soften the exhaustion carved into his face, but it does make his badge gleam every time he moves, not unlike a smug little spectator to my rebellion. It perches at his hip, a shining emblem of law and order, while I sit here, the living embodiment of bad decisions and selective rule-breaking.

I’m pacing, my bare feet soundless against the cool wooden floor. My mind is a live wire, sparking with adrenaline, defiance, and the bitter taste of the truth.

"This is insane, Sofia." Marino’s face pales visibly as he rubs a hand down the length of it. He looks bone-tired, but I don’t care. "You have to drop this story. You don’t get it—they’re done warning you."

I snort in response as I plant my palms on my hips. "Oh, I get it just fine. The Lombardis think they can scare me into silence." I spin to face him, crossing my arms over my chest. "Tell me, Marino, how many bodies have they buried because people like medidstay silent?"

"This isn’t about right and wrong anymore. It’s about survival." His voice dips lower, raw with an emotion that sounds almost like pleading. "You don’t know these men the way I do. You have no idea what they’re capable of."

I step closer, the distance between us shrinking to inches. "Andyoudon’t know me."

My voice has become shrill, maybe because I’m passionate, maybe because I can’t take everyone telling me what I need to do any longer. "I’ve worked too hard, dug too deep to back down now. This story isn’t just about the Lombardis, it’s about the city, about the people they’ve crushed beneath their boot. If I don’t tell it, who will?"

Marino curses under his breath and turns away, his hands bracing against the counter. The tension in his shoulders is practically alive, coiled tight like a beast on the verge of snapping. It drags at him, an invisible yoke of duty, regret, or maybe just the burden of dealing with me.

For a long moment, he says nothing. He just stares at the cracked tiles beneath his fingers.

Then, finally, defeat.

"Fine." He sighs drearily, the word laced with resignation. "I can’t stop you. But if you’re hell-bent on signing your own death warrant, I’m not letting you do it alone." He turns back to me, his expression hard, resolved. "I’ll help. As much as I can."

Something in my chest eases, just slightly. I won’t thank him—not when this is as much his fight as mine—but I nod. "Good."

Marino shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s gotten himself into. "For the record," he mutters, pulling his jacket from the chair, "this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done."

I smirk. "Then you haven’t been paying attention."

He grumbles something I don’t catch and heads for the door. I watch him go, listening for the soft click of the lock as it slides into place.

And then I sigh.

The moment of stillness lasts only a breath before the weight of the night crashes back down on me. My eyes flick to the clock.Shit.I don’t have time for this, not when I have to get ready.

I have to attend the Salvatore’s Gala. Valentina will expect me to show up.

My stomach knots at the thought, a tangled mess of irritation, determination, and something else that creeps all the way down my spine and settles between my legs.Damn it. Damn all the Salvatores but especially Marco.I march toward my bedroom, flipping the light switch on as I go.

The dress hangs on the back of my closet door, shimmering in the glow of my bedside lamp—a deep crimson, silk that pools like spilled wine. It’s bold. Reckless. A color that demands to be seen.

Perfect.

Because if I’m walking into a den of criminals tonight, I’m not going quietly.

I yank open my dresser, rummaging through tangled jewelry and half-forgotten keepsakes until I find what I’m looking for—a delicate chain with a small gold pendant. It belonged to my mother, and I fasten it around my neck with steady fingers.

As I sit at my vanity, smoothing my hair into an elegant updo, my mind drifts to Luca Salvatore and his infuriatingly handsome, insufferably arrogant brother, Marco.

The memory of our last encounter burns like whiskey down my throat.

They had barged into my apartment—myapartment—flanked by their suited shadows, looking for all the world like kings descending from their thrones.

Luca had been his usual brooding, self-important self, but it was Marco who had gotten under my skin.

He had leaned against my kitchen counter, arms crossed, a self-important smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he watched me with those impossibly dark eyes.

I had hated how he looked at me like he saw straight through my defiance, straight through my walls, as if he knew exactly how to unravel me.