Page 1 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

SOFIA

Five Years Ago

T he newsroom is utterly disorganized. Phones scream like sirens, reporters charge past one another with wild eyes, and the smell of burned coffee clings to the air like smoke after a firefight.

A television screen flashes brEAKING NEWS banners in rapid succession, each one a bombshell waiting to detonate.

The hum of chaos is almost deafening, but to me, it’s just background noise.

I sit in the eye of the storm, my focus razor-sharp, the world narrowing to the cluttered, ravaged terrain of my desk.

Papers sprawl across every available inch, photos curl at the edges under the weight of stapled reports, and a corkboard looms behind me, strung with red thread like a spiderweb spun from secrets.

The threads intersect at one name: The Lombardi Family.

This isn’t just a story. It’s the story.

I drag my finger across one of the photos pinned to the board, tracing the clean, angular jawline of Vittorio Lombardi, the don of one of Nuova Speranza’s most powerful mafia families. His eyes, even in the grainy surveillance image, glint with a cold cunning that makes my stomach tighten.

He’s untouchable, a kingpin draped in silk suits and bloody shadows, his empire stretching from the darkest corners of the city to the highest echelons of power.

Of course, he holds nothing to the Salvatore empire, built from the ground up by Luca Salvatore, the ruling don of Nuova Speranza.

The other mafia families operate under his protection and authority, but their power is conditional.

Each month, they pay tribute, usually in cash, but sometimes in assets, favors, or territory.

The rate varies depending on their income streams. Drug families owe more than those in extortion or gambling.

The tributes are not symbolic. They buy permission to operate, protection from outside interference, and immunity from Luca’s own men.

No family can conduct hits, move product across districts, or expand rackets without his approval.

Everything flows through his office. He holds the master keys to the city’s corruption: judges, inspectors, customs officers, union leaders, and a few elected officials who play dumb when his name is mentioned.

Any don who defies him publicly is removed.

Quietly if possible, violently if necessary.

Vittorio Lombardi runs a powerful family, but he still attends Luca’s sit-downs when summoned.

He requests clearance before shifting cargo through Luca’s ports.

He forwards ten percent of all dockside earnings, and another five if weapons are involved.

He is allowed to keep his seat, his soldiers, and his face on the street, but he owes everything to Luca’s tolerance.

The only difference is, while I abhor Luca, he’s morally gray.

Lombardi is scum of the earth, a man who used to run trafficking rackets and only stopped when Luca made it impermissible.

I’m sure it won’t be too long before he makes an attempt on the throne.

That puts my best friend, Valentina, in danger simply because she’s Luca’s wife.

The world is better off without men like Vittorio Lombardi. And I’m going to destroy him.

A small smile tugs at my lips as I lean back in my chair, the squeak of the old springs lost beneath the newsroom’s relentless clamor.

This is what I’ve spent years clawing my way toward: the chance to pull the curtain back on one of the city’s dirtiest secrets and expose the rot festering beneath its polished surface.

"Sofia!"

The voice snaps through my thoughts, and I glance up to see Daniel Voss, my editor-in-chief, weaving through the chaos.

He’s a human hurricane, tie askew, glasses perched precariously on his nose, his bald head gleaming under the fluorescent lights.

His expression is one part exasperation, two parts caffeine overdose.

"Tell me you have something." He plants both hands on the edge of my desk.

"Good morning to you too, Daniel," I say dryly, shuffling a stack of papers to make room for his theatrics.

"Sofia," he growls, leaning closer, his voice charged. "Don’t play coy with me. We’re sitting on deadlines, and I’ve got advertisers threatening to pull out because they think we’re ‘too controversial’.

" He makes air quotes around the word, as though the mere suggestion of playing it safe physically pains him.

I meet his gaze unflinchingly. "I’m close," I say.

Daniel narrows his eyes. "Close isn’t a story. Close is you dangling your feet over the edge and calling it swimming."

"This isn’t just a story, Daniel." My voice sharpens, slicing through his doubt. "This is the Lombardi family. Corruption, racketeering, murder—it’s all here."

I tap the pile of evidence spread across my desk. "I just need one more piece. One more thread to pull, and the whole thing unravels."

For a moment, he studies me, his gaze darting between my face and the chaos on my desk. Then he sighs, scrubbing a hand down his face. "If you don’t have something concrete by?—"

"I’ll have it," I cut him off. If time is of the essence, there’s no point wasting any of it discussing variables.

He mutters something under his breath before storming off, barking orders at an unlucky intern on his way back to his office.

As soon as he’s out of earshot, I exhale, the tension draining from my shoulders. I glance at the clock on my computer screen—9:42 a.m.—and realize I’ve been here since before sunrise.

A half-empty cup of espresso sits forgotten next to my keyboard, cold and bitter, but I down it anyway, the jolt of caffeine burning down my throat.

My gaze shifts back to the corkboard, and I chew on my lower lip, my mind racing to map out the best path forward. Before I can get too far, my phone rings, its sharp trill cutting through my thoughts.

I snatch it up. "Sofia De Luca."

The voice on the other end is low, rough, and unmistakably terrified. "We need to meet."

My stomach knots. "Who is this?"

"You know who," the voice hisses. "I have what you’re looking for. But we can’t talk over the phone. Meet me tonight. Pier Seventeen. Midnight."

Pier Seventeen. Lombardi territory.

Before I can ask another question, the line goes dead, leaving me clutching the receiver as the hum of the newsroom crashes back in around me. My pulse pounds in my ears, every instinct screaming at me to tread carefully.

But careful isn’t how you expose a family like the Lombardis.

I stare at the photo of Vittorio Lombardi pinned to my corkboard, his cold, calculating eyes taunting me like a dare.

Grabbing a highlighter, I start flipping through my notes, each page a piece of a puzzle so damning that it makes me feel both exhilarated and nauseous. My hands shake as I find the first file I’m looking for.

Corruption.

The Lombardis aren’t just criminals; they’re the architects of a system so deeply rooted in Nuova Speranza’s institutions that it feels almost untouchable.

I’ve got spreadsheets detailing bribes paid to city officials, shell corporations laundering money through "charitable donations", and even a photograph of Vittorio Lombardi shaking hands with the city’s mayor at a private fundraiser last fall.

There are emails too, leaked to me by a whistleblower, proving election results were rigged. Votes were bought and candidates eliminated—literally.

I run the highlighter across the incriminating lines, marking them in neon yellow, the anger simmering in my chest growing hotter with each stroke.

Next, I pull up the testimonies.

Human trafficking.

I skim the names of the survivors I’ve interviewed—women, men, and even children who were sucked into the Lombardis’ monstrous machine and spat out broken.

Their voices echo in my mind. The woman who whispered about being auctioned off at a warehouse under the glow of a single flickering bulb stands out clearly from my work doing interviews.

I think of the young boy, no older than thirteen, who described the ships in excruciating detail—cages, chains, and the endless sound of waves as they were carted off to God knows where.

One survivor’s testimony haunts me the most. Ava, twenty-two, former college student.

She sat across from me in a dingy coffee shop, her hands trembling as she described how she escaped.

"They killed anyone who disobeyed," she’d said, her voice hollow, her eyes wet with unshed tears. "I watched it happen."

My chest tightens as I add a note in bold pen to Ava’s file. Dig deeper into Ava’s intel on Port Thirteen. Match dates with cargo shipments.

Finally, I pull the last file from the stack.

Murder for hire .

This is the part that keeps me up at night. Dozens of unsolved murders tied back to the Lombardis—city council members, investigative journalists, even small business owners who refused to cooperate.

I’ve got police reports that mysteriously disappeared from public records, witness statements that were buried, and a few names of hitmen whispered in the back rooms of the city’s underbelly.

But the most damning evidence? A grainy photo I received anonymously of a man I’d been investigating—Deputy Mayor John Kerrigan—two days before his body was found dumped in the river. His crime? Publicly criticizing the city’s unchecked corruption.

I highlight the date of Kerrigan’s death, matching it to a known Lombardi meeting at a private club the same night. My pen hesitates over the file for a second before I scribble in the margins. Follow up with PD on Kerrigan’s autopsy report. Was it tampered with?

I lean back in my chair, pinching the bridge of my nose. My pulse pounds in my ears, a relentless rhythm reminding me how far I’ve dug myself into this pit. This isn’t just a story anymore—it’s a war.

And I’m all too aware of what that means.