Page 73 of The Underboss's Secret Twins

If the men start to doubt me—if they stop trusting my judgment—then the entire foundation we’ve built starts to crack.

And Sofia…

Sofia is the wedge in that crack.

I start walking, my steps quick and quiet. My thoughts sharpen with each footfall, turning over the possibilities, the consequences.

She’s safe. For now. That should be enough. But it isn’t. Not when one of my own stood in front of the others and dared to question me like I hadn’t dragged this family up from nothing. Like the blood on my hands was borrowed instead of earned. One voice is all it takes. A little noise, and suddenly men who owe everything to me forget how they got here. They forget the dirt under their nails, the prison beds, the street corners soaked in rain and gasoline. They forget that we weren’t born into this life—we took it, piece by piece, while the old families laughed at us from their cigar-stained estates and said we wouldn’t last the year.

My thoughts are restless all the way into the estate, even as the familiar and otherwise comforting embrace of aged wood and cigar smoke wrap around me. Somewhere in the distance,the low murmur of voices drifts through the corridors, but I don’t stop to listen.

The chandeliers glow dimly overhead, their golden reflections gliding along the polished marble floors like ghosts. The corridors stretch ahead of me, long and quiet, their towering columns casting elongated shadows in the fading afternoon light.

Dust motes swirl in the air, catching the last rays of sun filtering through the stained-glass windows at the far end of the hall—saints and martyrs frozen in colorful glass, staring down in judgment.

I make my way toward my private quarters, each step measured, each thought turning over itself.

The men are questioning me.

And I can feel it—like the first shift in the wind before a storm, like the sharp tang of rain on the horizon.

I push open the heavy mahogany doors to my suite and step inside. The room is vast, but the darkness makes it feel smaller, more enclosed. The curtains are half-drawn, letting in fractured light that stretches across the Persian rugs and the dark leather of the armchairs.

A sleek, black gun sits on the edge of my desk, half-forgotten beside an empty tumbler of whiskey from last night. The scent of oak and charred vanilla lingers in the air, clinging to the crystal decanter still holding what’s left of the bottle.

I shut the door behind me, the click of the lock settling into place like a final, unspoken truth.

Someone has fed the fire of disloyalty.

I need to find out who.

I push open the heavy double doors to my suite and step inside, exhaling slowly. The room is dark, save for the slanted streams of sunlight cutting through the curtains. A half-empty tumbler of whiskey from the night before sits on the bar cart, theamber liquid catching the light. The scent of leather and smoke lingers in the air, familiar, grounding.

Perhaps going to Luca directly and asking clean questions would solve all my problems. It could help to demand to know where he stands on this.

Because whether he orchestrated it or not, he knows. He always knows.

But as I reach for my phone to call him, it vibrates in my hand.

I glance at the screen, and a name flashes across it—one of my trusted informants. Someone I keep on the inside, someone who has never wasted my time with rumors or speculation.

Got something you need to see. Not Luca. Someone else. Check your encrypted inbox.

A slow, cold current slides down my spine.

I move to my desk, unlock the secure tablet, and pull up the encrypted messaging service I use for sensitive intel. A new file sits at the top of the queue. I tap it open, my eyes narrowing as I skim through the contents.

And then my blood runs cold.

Antonio Mancini.

The name sits there like a bomb waiting to detonate.

The report is thorough—whispers of meetings held behind closed doors, men who have started looking to Mancini for direction, soldiers who have begun to question if they should still be following me. Not Luca. Me.

My grip tightens around the tablet, my knuckles going white.

Mancini has always been a wildcard, a man who thrives in the gray areas of power. He’s been useful over the years, handling logistics, making deals that require a certain kind of finesse. But he’s never had ambition beyond his station.