Page 14 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

SOFIA

C onsciousness creeps back slowly, like an old wound tearing open.

At first, I feel a river of sensations—the dull, rhythmic pounding in my skull, the tight pull of rope biting into my wrists, and a mechanical whirring in the background. My body feels foreign, heavy, as if I’ve been dropped into myself after floating somewhere far away.

I try to move, but pain lances through my shoulders, sharp and immediate, stopping me cold. A whimper slips from my lips before I can swallow it down. My arms are pinned behind me, the circulation sluggish, my fingers tingling at the edges of numbness.

Then, the cold.

It seeps into my skin, wrapping around me like a second layer, the kind that doesn’t fade no matter how hard you try to shake it off.

The floor beneath me is solid concrete, its chill bleeding through the thin fabric of my clothes.

My cheek presses against it, rough and unyielding, dust and sweat clinging to my skin.

I blink, once, twice. My lashes are heavy, my vision slow to clear.

Darkness surrounds me. No windows. No sliver of sky to tell me if it’s morning or night. Just the dim glow of a single, flickering bulb swinging lazily overhead, its weak light casting shifting shadows along the barren walls.

I’m underground.

A basement? A storage room?

My breath hitches.

No. A prison.

Panic grips my ribs, tightening like a vice, squeezing out the last remnants of fog clouding my thoughts.

My pulse jumps, erratic, wild. A groan rips from my throat as I try to sit up.

The ropes burn, cutting into the soft skin of my wrists.

My ankles are bound too, crossed and secured so tightly I can’t twist my way free.

Fuck.

I squeeze my eyes shut, inhaling through my nose, trying to pull air into my lungs even though it feels like there’s no space left inside me.

Think, Sofia.

I don’t know how long I’ve been here. Minutes? Hours? My body aches like it’s been longer, like I’ve been lying here for too damn long, motionless and helpless. The last thing I remember is the SUV, the blindfold, the sick amusement in my captor’s voice.

The realization slams into me like a freight train.

I’ve been kidnapped by the Lombardis.

A shudder rolls through me.

This isn’t some empty threat, not a warning or a game. I’m deep in their territory now, surrounded by men who don’t leave loose ends.

I jerk at the ropes again, twisting my wrists hard, ignoring the sting. If I can loosen them—if I can get one hand free?—

The sound of footsteps halts me.

They’re distant at first, muffled by thick walls, but they grow closer, more defined, heavy boots against concrete. My breathing stills, muscles locking as my ears strain for details.

One person. No, two. Maybe more.

The door—where is it? My head snaps toward the opposite wall, searching. There. A thick slab of metal, bolted shut, the kind meant to keep things in , not just out .

My throat goes dry.

This isn’t a ransom situation.

This is something else.

A trade, or worse, a trap meant to lure in he one person who means the most in the world to me. This is all my fault, all because of my foolishness. I’m leading a man to his death sentence .

And Marco?—

The thought hits me so hard it nearly knocks the air from my lungs.

Does he know? Does he know where I am? Or is he still pacing that goddamn estate, drinking whiskey, strategizing, treating me like an afterthought?

The doubt is a parasite, sinking its claws into me, whispering in my ear.

What if he doesn’t come?

A lump rises in my throat, and I swallow it down hard. I don’t have time for weakness. I don’t have time to fall apart, to let panic eat me alive. I need to be ready.

I flex my fingers, testing the circulation in my hands. My right wrist is raw, but the rope feels looser than before. If I keep working at it, if I time it right?—

The footsteps stop outside the door.

And then, the door groans open like something out of a nightmare.

It’s painfully slow, the hinges whining as if the weight of what’s coming next is too much for them to bear.

My breath snags in my throat. I don’t move.

I don’t blink. The dim light from the hallway spills into the room, stretching long, ghostly fingers across the concrete floor, illuminating the filth and damp that coats the walls.

And then a man steps inside.

Tall. Broad-shouldered. Gaunt in a way that makes him look like something dragged from the depths of a graveyard, all sharp angles and hollowed-out cheeks. His eyes—cold and deathly pale—glint with a cold emotion that’s not cruelty or amusement.

No, this is something worse.

The man looks like a professional, who doesn’t take pleasure in his work, because to him, it isn’t work at all. It’s just another task. Another step toward whatever dark purpose he serves.

He shuts the door behind him, and the lock slides into place with a sickening finality.

I sit as still as I can, my pulse a wild drum against my ribs. Fear curls around my spine, slick and insidious, but I force my expression to stay neutral. I will not cower. I will not let him see how deep this terror runs.

But when he moves, just a slight tilt of his head as he regards me, a shiver rakes down my back.

He drags a metal chair from the corner, its legs screeching against the floor like nails against bone. I don’t flinch. I won’t.

Then he sits and leans forward.

His face is too close.

The dim light sharpens the ridges of his cheekbones, casts long shadows over the thin, almost papery skin stretched over his knuckles as he folds his hands.

His voice, when he speaks, is low and rasping, like the words have to crawl over broken glass to escape his throat.

"You’ve got yourself into a real mess, haven’t you, Miss De Luca? Do you even know what’s happening here?"

A slow, measured breath fills my lungs. I lift my chin. "Marco will find me."

I want it to sound strong. Unshaken.

It doesn’t.

He chuckles. A deep, dark sound that slithers through the silence like a knife slipping between ribs. He leans back, crossing his arms as he watches me. "Oh, I’m sure he will. But that’s exactly what we want."

A fresh wave of dread sweeps through me.

He’s toying with me. Baiting me.

But there’s something in the way he says it, the absolute certainty in his tone, that sends ice snaking through my veins.

There’s something I’m not being told.

His voice drops lower, turning conspiratorial, his words curling like smoke around my already fraying nerves.

"You see, Sofia, this isn’t just about you. It’s about Marco. He’s been making some dangerous enemies lately. And not just among the Lombardis. Even his own people are starting to wonder where his loyalties lie. It’s only a matter of time before he has to make a choice."

I shake my head. "You’re lying."

Am I convincing him, or myself?

He smirks. "You sure about that?"

I press my lips together.

A pause, stretching long and taut.

Then—

"You," he continues, voice smooth as silk, "are just a pawn in his game."

The words sink in like broken glass pressed to flesh, slowly and with great passion, like the speaker needs them to hurt. He watches me closely, looking for cracks, waiting for the moment my resolve fractures.

Marco wouldn’t betray me. Would he?

He told me to stay put. He said he was busy. But the way he answered that call in the car, the way his voice had carried that sharp edge of impatience, as if he recognized the man speaking to him?—

I clamp down on the thought before it can spread like poison.

"Marco isn’t playing a game," I say, my voice steadier now. "He’ll come for me."

The man lets out a slow exhale, like he’s disappointed I’m not breaking fast enough.

He adjusts his cuffs, shaking his head slightly.

"You think he’s rescuing you out of the goodness of his heart?

" He leans in again, close enough that I catch the faint scent of stale cigarettes clinging to his clothes. "No, Sofia. He’s doing it because he needs you. Because you’re useful. "

I don’t respond.

Because I know Marco.

Don’t I?

"He needs to prove his loyalty," the man continues, his voice turning almost gentle, as if he’s letting me in on some dark secret. "He needs to show everyone he’s still in control. But once he has what he wants…" He trails off, his lips curving into something that’s not quite a smile. "Do you really think he’ll keep you safe? Or will he hand you over to whoever’s offering the highest price? "

A sliver of doubt snakes up my spine.

Because I have seen the darkness in Marco. I’ve watched him make cold, calculated decisions. I’ve seen what he’s willing to do when someone threatens the family. When someone becomes a problem.

And what am I, if not a problem?

The man leans in, his voice a whisper now. "You’ve seen what he’s capable of, haven’t you?"

Memories flash like lightning across my mind—Marco’s hands bloodied from a man who crossed him, the sharp snap of a bone breaking beneath his grasp, the flat, detached look in his eyes as he pulled the trigger of a gun.

The warmth I see in him, the man who has always pulled me back from the edge, is tangled with the man who is capable of anything .

The man who told me to stay put.

The man who was busy .

The man who, for all I know, knew this was coming .

I shake my head, clenching my fists, nails digging into my palms.

No.

This is what they want .

They want to unravel me, to slip inside my head and lace it with doubt, planting their words like landmines so that by the time Marco comes—if he comes—I won’t know whether to run into his arms or claw my way out of them, and the man sees it, the hesitation that flickers too fast to hide, the way my breath catches just slightly in my throat.

And that’s when I know I’m in trouble, because it doesn’t matter that I’m tied to this chair, wrists aching, the fabric damp with sweat where it bites into my skin.

It doesn’t matter that I’ve said nothing, confessed nothing, because they’re already pulling me apart in the places no one can see, and the worst of it is the way he watches me, not with impatience or pity, but with the cold curiosity of a predator studying prey that hasn’t yet realized it’s already dead.

His cold, pale eyes hold none of the amusement I’ve seen in men who enjoy their cruelty—there’s no pleasure here, no thrill in the way he delivers his words like slow-dripping poison. That almost makes it worse. There’s nothing personal in this. Just cold efficiency.

The worst kind of monster.

I don’t move. I don’t let my body betray the chaos inside me, even as the weight of his words coils in my stomach like a sickness I can’t shake.

"You’re going to see Marco soon enough," he says, standing, his broad frame casting a long, dark shadow over me. "Maybe you’ll even get out alive. But remember what I’ve told you."

The overhead bulb casts uneven light across his face, deepening the hollows beneath his cheekbones, sharpening the cruel curve of his mouth.

"He’s not your savior, Sofia."

I inhale sharply through my nose, but I don’t let my expression slip.

"He’s just another player in this game, and you’re just another piece."

He steps closer, and though I will myself to stay still, my body betrays me—my shoulders lock up, my pulse hammers against my throat. His voice drops, a near whisper, but it slithers into my bones like a curse.

"When the time comes, don’t trust him."

The air between us feels awfully thin.

"Because if you do, it might be the last mistake you ever make."

The words sink into me like hooks, burrowing under my skin, wrapping around the fragile thread of certainty I’ve been clinging to since the moment I was taken.

And I hate it—God, I hate it—because I don’t know if he’s wrong.

Marco is coming for me. I know that. I feel it in my bones.

But why?

To save me?

Or to finish whatever game they’re playing?

The man studies me for a second longer, then exhales softly, like I’m already lost, like the choice I make doesn’t matter because, in the end, the game will play out the same way.

And then?—

He turns.

The heavy steel door swings open, and the dim light from the hallway spills in, casting a long shadow across the concrete floor.

Then— slam.

The door locks.

The sound echoes through the room, bouncing off the cold, empty walls.

And just like that, I’m alone.

Alone with the fear.

Alone with the doubt.

Alone with the unbearable question clawing at my mind?—

What if he’s right?