Page 10 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

SOFIA

" W ell?"

Marco’s voice is razor-sharp, slicing through the heavy silence in the car. His grip on the wheel is tight, knuckles white, his jaw clenched so hard it looks like he might break his teeth. The city lights flicker through the windshield, casting his face in sharp, unforgiving angles.

I cross my arms over my chest, willing myself to look strong. "I did what I had to do."

Marco exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s physically holding himself back from punching something. Or someone. "No, Sofia. What you did was reckless. You dragged me into this. You didn’t trust me enough to handle it. And now, you’ve put both of us—hell, the entire family—at risk."

I whip my head toward him, anger flaring hot in my chest. "I didn’t drag you into anything. I asked for your help?—"

"You lied to me." His voice is lethal, quiet in the way that means he’s barely keeping himself together. "You knew exactly what this was, and you didn’t tell me. You used me, Sofia."

That accusation stings. This is the most ashamed I’ve ever been, and like a wounded animal, the last thing I want to do is admit I was wrong, that I’m the one responsible for Marino’s death.

I snap my gaze to the road ahead, the neon blur of Nuova Speranza rushing past us. "I had to do this, Marco. This is my job, my responsibility! You can’t just keep me locked away like some prisoner while your family decides what justice looks like."

He lets out a bitter laugh, shaking his head.

"Justice? You think this is about justice ?" He jerks the wheel, making a sharp turn down a side street. The car growls beneath us, a beast barely restrained. "You don’t get it, do you? This isn’t some exposé in your precious newspaper. This is the kind of stuff that gets people killed. And now, because of this, you’ve made my family a target with the Lombardis. "

I swallow past the lump forming in my throat.

He’s not wrong.

But I can’t regret this.

"You don’t get to tell me what I can or can’t do," I say, voice quieter now. "I’m not one of your soldiers, Marco. I don’t answer to you."

He presses his foot harder against the gas, his body coiled tight. "No. You don’t answer to anyone. That’s the problem."

I press my hands against my thighs, nails digging into the fabric of my jeans. "I answer to the truth. That footage—Marino died for it. You saw what happened back there. You know this needs to come out."

Marco slams his hand against the wheel, the sharp crack making me jump. "You really think this ends with a story, Sofia? You think exposing the Lombardis is going to make them disappear? You don’t get to just take them down without consequences."

I turn to him, my voice raw with frustration. "So what? We just let them keep killing people? Let them keep buying cops and politicians until there’s nothing left of this city that isn’t rotten?"

His silence is deafening.

I push forward, my heart hammering. "I know what I’m doing, Marco."

His hands flex on the wheel. "No. You really don’t."

I let out a slow, uneven breath, my chest tight with the weight of his words. I hate this. I hate us like this. Every sharp edge, every wall, every wound between us gaping wider by the second.

"You’re right," I finally say, my voice quiet but firm. "This isn’t just about justice anymore." I turn my head, meeting his eyes in the darkened interior of the car. "But it’s not just about your family either. You think I don’t know the risks? I do , Marco. I know exactly what I’m up against. And I also know I can’t just sit back and let it happen. "

His jaw tics, his fingers drumming against the wheel. "And what happens when they come for you, Sofia? When it’s your body lying in a pool of blood next time? What then?"

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.

Because the truth is, I don’t know.

I don’t have a plan for that.

Marco scoffs at my silence, running a hand through his hair before gripping the wheel again. "That’s what I fucking thought."

I shake my head, frustration tightening every nerve in my body. "You can’t have it both ways, Marco."

He stills.

The air in the car shifts, crackling like static before a storm.

I don’t know why I said it. Maybe because I’m tired of pretending we don’t both know what this is. Maybe because I need to hear him deny it.

He doesn’t.

Instead, he turns his head, his dark gaze locking onto mine, unreadable.

"I told you I’d protect you, Sofia." His voice is a murmur. "But you’ve made it impossible."

I stiffen.

"If you can’t trust me to keep you safe, then maybe this can’t work," he says in a cool, distant tone. "I can’t have you jeopardizing everything I’ve worked for, everything the family stands for."

The words land like a bullet to the chest.

I should have seen this coming.

But somehow, it still feels like the ground beneath me is crumbling.

I press my lips together, forcing down the ache rising in my throat. "So that’s it?" My voice is quiet, hollow. "You’re giving me an ultimatum? Fall in line, or we’re done?"

He exhales slowly, his grip on the wheel tightening.

"I’m saying," he murmurs, "that if you keep doing this—if you keep running into the fire instead of letting me pull you out—one day, I might not be fast enough."

Something shatters inside me.

Because despite the anger, despite the frustration burning between us…that’s fear in his voice.

Not for himself.

For me.

I turn away, pressing my fingers against my temple, willing the pressure in my chest to ease.

I don’t know what to say to that.

So I say nothing at all.

The rest of the drive is silent.

The car rolls to a stop in front of my building, the engine still purring like a restless animal. The streetlights cast long shadows over the pavement, stretching toward the sky like silent witnesses to the wreckage between us.

I reach for the door handle, my fingers curling around the cool metal, but I don’t move. Not yet.

Because once I step out of this car, everything changes.

Once I walk away, I don’t know if Marco will follow.

The weight of that realization sits heavy on my chest, pressing against my ribs, but I push it down. I have to.

Marco doesn’t say anything. He just grips the steering wheel, his jaw locked so tight I can hear the grinding of his teeth. The silence between us is thick, suffocating, filled with all the things we don’t know how to say.

Finally, I force myself to speak, even though my throat feels like it’s lined with glass. "You were right," I whisper.

His fingers flex on the wheel. His gaze stays fixed ahead, refusing to meet mine.

"But I can't stop now," I continue, voice barely more than a breath. "I have to finish what I started, even if it means doing it alone."

Marco inhales sharply, like my words are a physical blow.

I wait for him to argue, to tell me I’m making a mistake, to reach for me like he always does when things get too close to breaking.

But he doesn’t.

He just exhales, slow and measured, his head tipping forward slightly.

Stepping outside, I welcome the bite of the night air, cool against my skin. The city hums around me—sirens in the distance, the low rumble of traffic, the occasional burst of laughter from the bar down the street. Life moves on, and I, I stand in the center of it all, oddly suspended.

I stand beside Marco’s car, my hands curled into fists at my sides. My throat burns, my vision blurs, but I refuse to let the tears fall.

Because if I do—if I let myself break, even for a second—he’ll see just how much this hurts.

And I can’t afford that.

Marco watches me from the window, his expression carved from stone. He exhales and looks—really looks at me—like he wants to reach for me but won’t. "Sofia?—"

There’s no need for him to finish the question, because I’m not stopping until I have the answers I need. His expression flickers, something shifting beneath the surface. It’s so quick, I almost miss it. But then it’s gone. And so is he.

Without another word, the engine growls to life, headlights cutting through the dark. He doesn’t look at me again as he pulls away, tires kicking up gravel as he disappears into the night.

The moment he’s gone, the fight leaves my body.

I press my back against the brick wall of my building, dragging in a shaky breath. My hands tremble as I run them through my hair, exhaling sharply at the hollow space Marco just left behind.

I did the right thing. I know that.

But then why does it feel like I just ripped out a piece of my own heart?

I stare down the empty street where Marco’s car disappeared, the distant din of the city feeling eerily muted. My pulse is still pounding, but for the first time tonight, it has nothing to do with adrenaline. It’s the ache of something breaking apart, something I wasn’t ready to let go of.

But I have to.

I turn on unsteady legs and head toward my building.

Every step feels heavier, the weight of the night settling into my bones.

My fingers dig into my bag strap, the documents inside pressing against my back like a reminder—a cruel, unrelenting reminder—that this is what I chose. I chose to chase this story.

Marino is dead.

Marco is gone.

And I’m alone.

I push through the front door of my building, the air inside thick with stale cigarette smoke and cheap cleaning solution. The hallway is dim, the overhead light flickering weakly as I pass. It smells like dust and something metallic, like the scent of old pennies on skin.

A shiver crawls down my spine.

I blame exhaustion. The night has wrung me out, and my nerves are still raw from the shootout, from the fight with Marco, from the weight of everything pressing down on me.

By the time I reach my door, my stomach is twisted so tight I feel sick.

I slide my key into the lock and turn it.

The second the door creaks open, I know.

Something is wrong.

The air inside is different—stale, disturbed. It carries the sharp, lingering scent of cologne that shouldn’t be there. The hair on the back of my neck rises, every bone in my body screaming at me to run.

But I don’t.

I step inside.

And my world tilts.

My apartment is in ruins.

The coffee table is overturned and my couch cushions are gutted like someone was searching for something hidden inside.

The whiteboard where I’d mapped out my research is on the floor, the strings cut, the photos torn apart.

My books are ripped from the shelves, pages littering the hardwood like discarded confetti.

And then there’s my laptop.

Or what’s left of it.

It lies on the floor, screen shattered, keyboard crushed. The USB ports are empty. The message is clear.

If I meddle any deeper, I’m next in the line of fire.

A rush of cold fear slams into me, so fast and sharp that I have to grip the doorframe to keep my knees from buckling.

I scan the room, my breath coming in short, uneven gasps. There’s no sign of forced entry. No broken locks, no splintered wood. Whoever did this had skill. Precision. They weren’t just ransacking the place—they were searching.

And they didn’t find what they were looking for.

Which means they’ll be back.

A single thought cuts through the panic, razor-sharp and undeniable.

I am not safe here.

A floorboard creaks behind me.

I whip around.

The hallway is empty.

But the feeling remains, thick and suffocating—I am being watched.