Page 13 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

MARCO

I haven’t slept. Things should be easier in the wake of what the Salvatores have only just achieved—a complete and total takedown of one of our biggest rival clans, the Rossis.

And yet, my circumstances refuse to let up.

The clock on the wall tells me it’s morning—early, still dark—but time feels irrelevant, slipping through my fingers like sand.

My office is too small, too suffocating, every inch of it pressing in on me as I pace from one end to the other, my steps noisy and restless against the polished hardwood floor.

Outside, the estate is wrapped in the stillness that comes just before dawn.

But inside me, there is nothing but anguish.

I scrub a hand down my face as I suppress a groan.

My phone sits on the desk, screen black, silent.

My mind has been drawing a blank since the guard came to the family meeting with the news that Sofia has been kidnapped.

I didn't believe it, even as Luca supported me, assuring me that we'd get her back. This is rare on Luca’s part, and he's only allowing it because I'm family.

In fact, I pulled a whole blank until the call from Mancini who had more details about the kidnapping and had alerted the guard, also his younger cousin.

Mancini’s voice had been frantic, breathless, the kind of fear-laced urgency that wasn’t like him. But the line had gone dead before he could give me any details, and I have no further intel from him. This isn't good.

I’d called back immediately, but it went straight to voicemail. And then I’d waited—waited for something, anything —but all I got was silence, an emptiness that sank its claws into my chest and refused to let go.

An hour later, another call had come in.

Unknown number.

I knew before I even picked up.

The enforcer’s voice had been calm, almost amused. "Marco Salvatore," he’d said, voice smooth as silk, poisoned at the edges. "We have something of yours. You want her back, we make a deal."

They meant Sofia. They were trying to use her as a bargaining chip.

My fingers had clenched so tight around the phone I thought it might shatter. "What do you want?"

"We’ll be in touch."

And then he hung up.

Now I stand here, staring at my desk, that last sentence pressing against my ribs like a loaded gun. They didn’t even give me terms. No ransom, no demands—just a promise that this wasn’t over.

Which meant they wanted me desperate.

Which also meant they were playing a bigger game.

And that is what terrifies me the most.

Because they didn’t take Sofia for money.

They took her to get at me .

I reach for my lighter, flick it open, close it again. The repetition is the only thing keeping my hands steady. I have enemies. More than I can count. But this right now, with the Lombardis, it isn’t just a move. This is strategy.

There's a sharp knock at the door.

I don’t turn. "Come in."

The door creaks open. I know, from the very sound of his footsteps, that it's Mancini. He steps inside.

I wheel around and find his expression bleak, his suit rumpled. He looks as exhausted as I feel, but I don’t have the patience for it. I turn on him the second the door shuts.

"What the fuck happened last night?" My voice is low, strained from trying to maintain an ounce of control.

Mancini exhales wearily, raking a hand through his hair. "I told you. I saw them take her?—"

"And then what?" I snap. "You just lost them?"

His mouth tightens and his eyes grow dark. "I followed as long as I could, but they were fast. Cut through side streets, no plates. I tried calling you, but my phone—" He pulls it from his pocket, screen dead. "Battery died. By the time I got back here, I had nothing."

Every fiber in me wants to hit something, to hurl this entire fucking desk across the room, but I force myself to be still. Losing my temper won’t bring her back.

I take a slow breath, then another.

"What do you know?" I ask.

Mancini shakes his head. "Nothing useful. No names, no faces. Just their style. Professional. Too clean for low-level guys. These were real enforcers, Marco. The kind that don’t leave loose ends."

His words send something cold slithering down my spine .

My palms curl into fists.

The Lombardis don’t take hostages. They don’t negotiate. If they took Sofia, it’s because they have something planned.

And I’m running out of time to stop it.

I turn away, staring out the window. The sky is still dark, the estate grounds stretching out before me, perfectly still. But my mind is a storm, unraveling every possibility, every angle.

Charging in without a plan would be suicide. They want me unhinged. They want me reckless.

I can’t give them that.

I inhale, my decision crystallizing.

"I want every contact we have on this," I reply coldly. "Every informant, every rat, every cop we own. Someone knows where they took her."

Mancini nods. "I’ll make the calls."

I turn back to him, my gaze razor-sharp. "And Mancini?"

"Yeah?"

I step closer. "If you ever disappear on me in the middle of a situation like that again, I won’t give a fuck what your excuse is. You’ll wish the Lombardis got to you first."

His throat bobs, but he nods. "Understood."

"Good." I step back. "Now get the fuck out of my office and find me something."

Mancini doesn’t waste another second. He turns, disappearing through the door, leaving me alone in the silence.

I stare at the phone on my desk, waiting.

I know they’ll call again.

Which means I need to set things in motion.

The thought lingers in my mind as I storm through the halls of the estate, my pulse a steady drum of frustration beneath my skin.

The house is alive with movement—footsteps echoing against marble floors, murmured voices trailing from room to room, the scent of coffee and cigars thick in the air. It should be a day of victory.

The Salvatores won against the Rossis last night.

A war fought, a battle claimed.

And yet, all I can think about is Sofia, bound and gagged. Sofia, at the mercy of men who don’t leave loose ends. Sofia, waiting—if she’s even still waiting. If they haven’t already?—

I shove the thought away before it can form.

Not an option.

I don’t know why my feet carry me toward the back terrace, only that the house has become unbearable with its silence and its waiting and the feeling that everyone is watching to see what I’ll do next.

I take the stone steps two at a time and cut through the garden path, the gravel crunching beneath my shoes as I move without purpose, without direction, only with the kind of raw energy that has nowhere else to go.

And that’s when I see Luca, standing alone near the reflecting pool, one hand tucked into his pocket, the other holding a lowball glass filled with whiskey, his face angled toward the water where the lights of the house ripple like ghosts.

He doesn’t startle when I stop, doesn’t flinch or shift or greet me, just tilts his head slightly like he’s been expecting me all along.

“You look like you haven’t slept in days,” he says quietly, his voice more observation than criticism, the kind of tone a man uses when he’s trying to offer something without admitting it’s comfort.

I don’t answer. Luca turns toward me fully, the gravel silent beneath his loafers, his movements slow, always controlled, like his thoughts come ten seconds ahead of everyone else’s.

He takes a sip of his drink and studies me over the rim of the glass, his eyes unreadable in the dim garden light, but not cold.

“You’ve lost weight,” he says, and I can’t tell if he means it literally or if it’s his way of acknowledging what this week has taken out of me.

I move closer, just enough that I don’t have to raise my voice, and finally ask, “Have you heard anything?”

He doesn’t pretend not to know what I’m talking about. He nods once, slowly.

“We’ve confirmed the Lombardis have her,” he says, and the way he says it—like he’s reciting a business update—makes something in me crack.

“So what now?” I ask. “We wait? We do nothing? We send flowers when they send a body back?”

Luca finishes the rest of his drink in one smooth swallow and sets the glass down on the lip of the stone fountain behind him.

“You need to keep your head, Marco,” he says, and the words are calm but firm, delivered not like a command but like a warning from someone who has watched too many men throw their lives away for less.

I stare at him, this man I have called brother all my life, and for a moment I hate him for being able to stand here so still, so clean, so untouched while everything inside me is unraveling.

“I can’t just let them keep her,” I say, and he shakes his head like I’ve missed the point entirely.

“I know what she means to you,” he says, and for the first time, I hear the edge in his voice, the crack of emotion that’s almost always buried beneath the weight of leadership.

“But they’re waiting for you to act like this.

They want you storming through doors without a plan, because that’s the only way they win.

You go after her now, and you walk straight into a trap. ”

I don’t answer right away. The words are rational, reasonable, and utterly unbearable.

“She’s not bait,” I manage, my throat raw. “She’s not just leverage.”

Luca steps closer, and there’s something harder in his eyes now. “No, she’s not,” he says. “Which is exactly why you have to be smarter than they expect. You go in hot, you don’t get her back. You go in smart, you might.”

The garden holds us in silence, only the sound of wind through hedges and the faint splash of water breaking the stillness.

Then a new voice cuts in, soft but fierce, full of certainty and impossible to ignore.

My pulse thrums with barely contained anger.

I know Luca. I know his logic, his cold calculations. I know he isn’t saying this because he doesn’t care—he’s saying it because he does.

But he doesn’t understand.

Before I can say a damn thing, a voice slices through the thick tension.

"You can’t be serious, Luca!"

The sharp, trembling words snap through the room like a gunshot.

I turn just as Valentina steps into view, her dark eyes burning with disbelief.

Luca exhales, rubbing his fingers against his temple like he already regrets what’s about to happen. "Valentina?—"

"No." She steps forward, shaking her head, her expression tight with rage. "You can’t just write Sofia off. She’s my best friend. She’s family."

Her voice wavers on that last word, but her stance doesn’t.

Luca’s brows knit together. "This isn’t about emotions?—"

"The hell it isn’t!" She shakes her head. "This is about her! About Sofia." Her voice cracks, raw and thick with emotion. "Do you even hear yourself? Do you even care that she’s out there, in their hands, suffering because of us?"

Luca doesn’t flinch, but something in his gaze hardens.

"I care about keeping this family alive," he says, "And running headfirst into a trap won’t bring her back—it will only get more people killed."

Valentina stares at him, her expression a mixture of fury and betrayal.

I know exactly how she feels.

She turns to me, eyes pleading now. "You have to go after her, Marco," she says, her eyes shining. "You can’t let them do this to her."