Page 8 of The Underboss's Secret Twins

Sudden anger coils in my chest, hot and sour. "People like you are the reason this city is drowning."

He arches a brow. "And yet, it’s my family that keeps it from sinking entirely. We fund the hospitals. We pay for the shelters. We put food on the tables of people your politicians don’t give a damn about."

Damn it, he has a point.

But admitting that to Marco Salvatore would be a mistake of epic proportions. If I so much as hint that my views on his family aren’t entirely black and white, he’ll never let me live it down. And worse, he’ll know he’s gotten under my skin.

Instead, I let out a bitter laugh. "You do that with blood money, Marco."

For just one minuscule second, his smirk fades before he plasters it back on. The Salvatores must always appear indestructible. "And your beloved institutions are any better?You think the politicians inside that ballroom aren’t just as dirty? At least we don’t pretend to be saints."

I open my mouth, ready to argue, to hurl another accusation at him, but before I can, he moves.

His hand curls around my wrist, and in one smooth motion, he pulls me into the shadows of the garden, pressing me against the rough stone of a secluded alcove. My breath catches—not in fear, but—God help me—because I must have imagined this in a thousand sinful dreams.

Marco’s eyes burn into mine, his grip firm but not painful, his chest rising and falling in sync with my own ragged breaths.

"You think you know everything, don’t you?" His voice is lower now, rougher. "But you don’t, Sofia. You only see what you want to see."

I hate the way my pulse quickens, the way my body betrays me by leaning into his warmth instead of shoving him away.

"You—" I start, but before I can finish, his lips crash against mine.

3

SOFIA

Five Years Ago

The right thing would be to shove him away. I should definitely do that, should slap him, curse his name, storm back into that ballroom and drown my foolishness in overpriced champagne.

What I definitely shouldn’t do is kiss him back. But it’s too late, because the second Marco’s lips crash into mine, I lose every ability to think straight.

His mouth is hot and demanding, claiming me like he has every right to, like he already knows I won’t fight him. His tongue parts my lips, and I meet him without hesitation, tasting whiskey and sin and everything I should never want.

A groan rumbles from his chest as he presses me harder against the stone wall, one large hand braced beside my head while the other grips my hip, pulling me flush against him. There’s nothing soft or patient about the way he kisses me—it’s rough, punishing, designed to remind me exactly who he is.

I feel him already, thick and hard against my stomach, and a wicked thrill shoots straight through me at the sheer size of him.

"You’ve been fighting me all night," Marco murmurs against my lips, his teeth grazing my lower lip before biting down just hard enough to make me gasp. "But look at you now."

His voice is a low rasp, dark and dripping with amusement.

"You like this, don’t you, Sofia?" He drags his lips down my throat, nipping at the sensitive skin. "You like being handled like this."

I hate how much I do.

My hands, traitorous things, tangle into his hair, my nails scratching against his scalp as I tug him closer.

His voice drapes over me like velvet pulled through fire—rich, searing, and indulgently slow. It doesn’t ask; it claims, sending a thrill down my spine that I’ll pretend not to feel.

But he catches it.

His hand slides up my thigh, fingers teasing the slit in my dress, shoving it aside as he forces my leg over his hip. The movement sends my balance teetering, but Marco holds me firm.

"Say it," he demands, his breath hot against my neck. "Tell me you want this."

I refuse to give him that satisfaction.