Page 12 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

SOFIA

D eep, profound darkness swallows me whole.

Rough hands grip my arms, shoving me forward as I stumble down the hallway. My breath is quick, frantic, muffled behind the gag cutting into my lips. The rope binding my wrists bites into my skin with each desperate tug, my pulse a wild, erratic drumbeat in my ears.

The air in my apartment was thick with warning. Out here, it’s worse—cold and open, the city stretching wide and indifferent around me. A distant siren wails, but it’s useless, swallowed by the weight of what’s happening. No one is coming.

One of the men yanks the door open, and before I can brace myself, I’m shoved outside.

The chill of the night bites through my clothes, goosebumps rising across my arms as my bare feet hit the rough pavement.

The SUV is waiting, its blacked-out windows glinting under the dim glow of a flickering streetlamp.

I try to plant my feet, to twist free, but their grips tighten. My body jerks forward, legs kicking uselessly as I’m lifted off the ground. The door swings open.

I barely have time to scream before I’m thrown inside.

I land hard against the leather seat, the impact jolting through my bones. A second later, the door slams shut behind me, sealing me into the dark, airless space. The sharp scent of cigarette smoke clings to the upholstery, mixing with gun oil, sweat, the acrid tang of adrenaline.

The engine growls to life.

I lurch forward as the car peels away from the curb, tires screeching against the asphalt. The city lights blur past in a streak of gold and red, but it’s no use.

A strip of fabric slides over my face.

My world goes black.

I thrash, twisting hard, but a hand grips the back of my neck, shoving me down. The seatbelt locks against my ribs as I struggle, my breath coming in sharp, ragged bursts against the suffocating fabric of the gag.

"Quit it," a voice grunts beside me, low and irritated. "You’re making this harder than it has to be."

I jerk my head toward the voice, not caring that I can’t see him. Every muscle in my body is wired, my instincts shrieking at me to fight, to move, to do something—anything—before I disappear into the dark forever.

The man on my right shifts, the seat creaking under his weight. I can feel his presence—too close, heat radiating from his body like a warning.

"She’s a real pain in the ass," he mutters.

A second voice, rougher, older, chuckles from the front. "What did you expect? She’s been sniffing around the Lombardis for years. This one’s got a death wish."

A third voice, deeper and quieter, speaks from the driver’s seat. "Shut up. Focus."

I focus, too.

The way the car moves. The turns. The stops and starts.

I try to count them, to map the route in my head, but it’s impossible. The blindfold steals my sense of direction, leaving me drowning in the disorienting sway of the speeding vehicle.

Minutes pass. Maybe more.

The men exchange clipped words, but they mean nothing to me—fragments of conversation lost in the steady hum of the engine. I strain my ears, desperate for details, for anything I can use, but all I catch are vague mentions of "the boss" and "the exchange”.

I shift, my wrists burning against the rough rope as I try to loosen the knots. The bonds are tight, expertly done—whoever tied them knew what they were doing. My fingers are tingling, already starting to go numb.

I inhale through my nose, forcing my pulse to slow.

Think , Sofia.

The blindfold steals my sight, plunging me into darkness, but I have other senses.

The scent of cigarette smoke lingers in the car, stale and bitter, mingling with the faint metallic tang of gun oil.

The hum of the tires against the road vibrates through the floor beneath my feet.

Every slight turn, every acceleration, every shift in weight—I memorize them.

I don’t know where they’re taking me, but I won’t be lost in the dark forever.

I flex my fingers, willing sensation back into them. The ropes bite into my wrists, the fibers rough and unyielding, but I don’t stop twisting against them. My breathing is slow, controlled—at least on the outside. Inside, my ribs feel tight, like my lungs are working overtime just to keep up.

Then, a low chuckle breaks through the hum of the car.

"You’re thinking too hard, sweetheart."

The voice is deep. Gravelly. And oddly familiar, which makes it all the more unsettling.

I go still.

Another chuckle. He shifts beside me, the leather seat creaking under his weight.

"I can practically hear the gears turning in that pretty little head of yours," he says, a smirk evident in his tone. "Trying to figure out where we’re going? How this ends?"

I don’t answer. I can’t. The gag muffles anything I might say, and even if it didn’t, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Another shift. His presence is too close, his body radiating heat, a slow-burning threat.

"You know," he continues, conversational, almost amused, "I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time."

My stomach knots.

"Funny, isn’t it?" he muses. "Marco warned you to stay away, and now here you are, right where we want you."

Marco’s name slams into me like a fist to the ribs. The last thing he said to me— stay put —was a warning wrapped in distance, in restraint. He knew danger was coming, but even he couldn’t protect me from it. My bad for bringing this on myself.

I swallow against the gag, my pulse hammering against my throat. The space feels much too cramped, and for a moment, I worry I won’t be able to keep breathing.

The SUV moves like a bullet through the city, eating up the distance between me and wherever the hell they’re taking me. I still can’t see. The blindfold is tight, the fabric thick, and the gag in my mouth makes breathing through my nose a slow, infuriating task.

The man beside me hasn’t spoken again, but his presence is suffocating. I can feel his gaze on me, feel the sick amusement rolling off him in waves. I know him. I can’t place it, but I know him. The familiarity lingers like a phantom touch, setting my nerves on fire.

I force my body to go still, to stop struggling against the restraints. If I look like I’m breaking, they’ll underestimate me. If I play along, they’ll let something slip.

Then—

The man sighs. “I need to make a quick call, darling. Excuse me a moment.”

A slow exhale. The shift of fabric. Beep. A pause.

Beep. Bop. Bop. Beep.

Each sound pierces the quiet like a drop of water in a cave—not the rushed fumble of someone making a casual call, but the keystrokes of a man who knows this number by heart and only dials it when he wants something to burn.

The phone rises. I hear the lift of his arm, the faint brushing of fabric near his jaw.

He waits, his breathing loud as the phone begins ringing. I can hear because it’s on speaker. After two rings, a sharp, impatient voice fills the thin space between us.

"What do you know?"

Everything inside me stills.

Ice floods my veins, spreading through my limbs like liquid metal, weighing me down.

The voice belongs to Marco.

I inhale sharply through my nose, but it feels like there’s no air left in the SUV. My pulse slams into my ribs, too fast, too erratic. My world narrows to the deep cadence of his voice—low, edged with irritation.

The bastard beside me chuckles, tapping his fingers against his knee in an easy rhythm. He’s savoring this. He wants me to react, to break, to let the doubt sink its claws into my mind and stay there.

When he speaks, his voice is too theatrical, a performance dripping with manufactured urgency.

"Marco!" he says, voice thick with faux panic. "I sent word, I called the guard as soon as it happened, but I… Sofia?—"

Something snaps inside me.

Not fear.

Recognition.

Because it’s wrong. Too eager. Too precise. Too perfectly timed. And why does the man sound like he is panicking? He’s the one who kidnapped me, and yet, he speaks like a victim, not a culprit.

This isn’t a ransom call. This is a setup.

I wrench my body toward the sound, trying to see, but the blindfold robs me of that luxury. My wrists burn against the restraints as I twist, straining forward even though I know it’s futile.

Marco’s response is immediate—but muffled. A sharp intake of breath, a shift in his tone—he’s saying something, but before I can make out what?—

The call cuts off.

The man beside me has ended it.

The silence that follows is suffocating. And then—laughter. Low, rumbling, cruel.

"Was that Marco?" I whisper, my voice barely my own. At this stage, this is stating the obvious, but I want him to confirm just the same.

The bastard next to me grins, his pleasure dripping into every syllable. "Yes, sweetheart. That was your hero, all right."

My chest constricts. The walls of my mind start to cave in, panic and confusion tangling into a mess of paranoia that makes me wonder, for one long second, if Marco was behind this.

Did he know? Did he hand me over to the enemy to appease Luca?

No.

No, that’s impossible. The man beside me spoke as if he was delivering this information to Marco. But knowing the Salvatores, anything is possible.

But Marco wouldn’t?—

But he told me to stay put. Stay in that damned apartment.

He said he was busy.

He—

No.

I grit my teeth so hard my jaw aches.

This is exactly what they want.

They want me to believe Marco is part of this. To let the doubt fester, unravel me from the inside, make me question everything.

I force myself to breathe, pushing the paranoia aside. Focus on the facts, not the fear.

"You think you’re clever," I say, bringing steel into my voice.

The man beside me chuckles amusedly. "I think I’m smarter than you, sweetheart."

I press my back against the seat, gripping the restraints so tightly I feel the burn of rope against my skin. "You just set him up."

I can hear his glee. "Did I?"

They called Marco before they called anyone else.

Why?

If this were a standard kidnapping, they’d contact Luca first. Arrange a trade. Demand money. Threaten to send me back in pieces.

But they didn’t.

They wanted Marco’s attention first.

Not Luca.

Which means Marco wasn’t in on it. Which means Marco wasn’t expecting that call.

Which means?—

He’s coming.

A sharp, hot pain ignites in my chest, but I stomp it down before it can bloom.

I slow my breathing, forcing myself to listen and think instead of react.

The steady roll of the tires against pavement. The scent of leather and cigarette smoke clinging to the air. The low murmur of the men in the front seat, too quiet for me to make out their words.

I tune in to the one thing I can control.

My mind.

I’m not a little girl anymore.

I can still remember the day I learned how to control my fear.

My mother’s hands had been gripping my shoulders, her voice even but sharp as she whispered, "Close your eyes. Control your breath. You are not your panic."

I was nine.

I’d hidden under the kitchen table while my father screamed at her, his rage shaking the walls of our tiny apartment. My mother, her face an unreadable mask, had waited until his fury burned out and he stormed out the door.

Then, she’d found me.

And she’d taught me the art of turning fear into something useful.

So I do it now.

I inhale through my nose, slow and measured.

I exhale through my mouth, releasing the panic, the doubt, the weakness.

It doesn’t mean I’m not afraid. It just means they won’t see it.

"So, what’s the plan?" I ask, my voice level. "Kill me? Dump my body in the river?"

The man makes a thoughtful sound, dragging it out like he’s considering it. "Nah," he says. "You’re worth more alive than dead."

This isn’t about me, or what I’m doing, or what I may discover. It’s much bigger.

"You’re a perfect pawn, you know that?" he murmurs. "Marco will do anything for you. That kind of loyalty? It’s rare. It’s valuable."

This is all a trap laid out to lure Marco to his death.