Page 96 of The Underboss's Secret Twins

"Then don’t," I snap back, my own temper flaring. "You’re always so sure of yourself, Marco. You always think you know everything. So, tell me—what am I thinking right now?"

A muscle jumps in his jaw.

I turn away before he can answer, before I say something I can’t take back.

The fight lingers in the air long after I climb into bed, long after he settles on the sofa across the room, refusing to join me.

He doesn’t trust me.

And he shouldn’t.

Before the sun rises, I wake him with my hands, my mouth, my body.

I kiss him slow, teasing, coaxing. I taste the salt of his skin, the heat of his exhaustion, the bitterness of the distance between us. He groans into my mouth, gripping my hips, pulling me against him with a hunger that should terrify me but doesn’t.

Because I know what comes next.

I feed him strawberries from my fingers, watch as his mouth wraps around them, his lips stained red from the juice. I pourhim a glass of wine, smiling as he drinks, knowing it won’t take long before the pill I slipped into it takes effect.

By the time I straddle him, by the time he’s growling my name into my throat, his grip less demanding, his movements slower, I know it’s working.

His breathing grows heavy. His body relaxes beneath mine.

And when I finally let him drift into sleep, pressing one last kiss to his temple, I force myself not to cry. It takes me a long, long time to tear myself away from him.

I have to do this.

The longer I wait, the more impossible this becomes. Hesitation is a noose tightening around my throat, and if I don’t move now, I never will.

Carefully, I peel back the sheets and slip out of bed, keeping each movement slow, measured. The room is steeped in shadows, quiet except for the steady rhythm of his breath. I crouch near the dresser, reaching for the small stash I’ve hidden away—a bundle of cash, a burner phone, a change of clothes. Essentials. Not enough, but all I can take without raising suspicion.

At the doorway, I stop. Just for a second. Just long enough to let my eyes trace over him one last time.

Marco lies sprawled across the bed, the sharpness of him softened in sleep, the weight he carries stripped away for these few stolen hours. He looks almost peaceful. Almost like the man I used to believe he could be.

My teeth sink into my lip as my hand drifts to my stomach, pressing lightly, grounding myself in the choice I’ve already made.

I had arranged the car two nights ago, knowing Valentina would help. Marco had been beside me then, lost in sleep, his fingers curled over my hip like even in his dreams he knew what I was up to.

I stared at my phone for what felt like an eternity before I finally typed out the message.

I need a favor. A car, Thursday morning, sharp at five. No questions.

The reply came faster than I expected.

I’ll handle it. Just tell me where you need to go.

The air is too warm despite the early morning chill seeping through the windows. The remnants of last night still linger—crumpled sheets, the faint scent of wine and sex, the feel of his hands on my skin. I force myself to push it away, to ignore the way my body aches from the way he touched me, from the way I memorized him in the dark.

I have to focus.

I move carefully, my fingers shaking as I reach for the small scrap of paper I found in his desk. I should say more. I should explain. But there’s no way to make him understand why I have to do this.

I press the pen to the page.

I’m sorry, Marco.

Three words. The only ones that matter. The only ones that will gut him.