Page 18 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

MARCO

T he corridors of the estate are eerily silent, but the stillness is thick, charged with the weight of everything that’s just happened.

Footsteps echo against polished marble, a slow, steady rhythm as I lead Sofia away from the entrance, away from Luca’s scrutiny, away from the tension that still lingers like smoke in the air.

She walks beside me, but I can feel the strain in her every step.

She’s running on fumes, her body drained, her mind likely caught in a spiral of exhaustion and unease.

She hasn’t spoken since Valentina released her from that crushing embrace, and I haven’t pressed her.

She needs time to breathe, to process. To remember that she’s safe now.

Even if I know that safety is nothing more than an illusion.

We turn a corner, and the familiar scent of aged wood and clean linen filters through the air as I guide her toward a part of the house few ever step into.

This wing of the estate is meant for those who need protection—secure, heavily guarded, tucked away from the eyes of men who see everything as leverage.

That won’t happen to her ever again.

Not while I’m still breathing.

I reach the door at the end of the hall and push it open, revealing a softly lit room. Warm golden light spills from a vintage lamp, casting gentle shadows across the space.

Unlike the rest of the house, this room isn’t meant to impress—it’s meant to comfort.

The walls are lined with rich, honey-colored wood, the windows framed with heavy, earth-toned drapes that soften the world outside.

A plush bed with deep, inviting sheets sits against the far wall, flanked by a well-worn leather armchair and a small bookshelf filled with titles that once made her laugh.

A thick rug muffles the sound of footsteps, adding to the sense of quiet refuge.

She steps inside slowly, her fingers brushing against the edge of the table as her wary gaze sweeps over the room.

There’s hesitation in her posture, the kind that comes from someone who no longer trusts the spaces they’re placed in.

I don’t blame her. But this—this is hers.

A place where no one can touch her unless she allows it.

"This room is off-limits to everyone but me and the men I trust," I tell her, dropping my voice to the gentlest it has ever been. "No one comes in or out without my say-so. You’re safe here."

Sofia exhales, her arms wrapping around herself as if she’s trying to hold herself together. The soft glow from the single bedside lamp casts shadows along her features, accentuating the bruise on her cheek, the faint tremble in her fingers.

She’s still standing, still fighting, but the weight of it all is pressing down on her, unraveling her thread by thread.

I step back into the hallway, signaling to the two enforcers stationed outside. They straighten the moment they see me, their expressions blank, but their eyes sharp. These are men who have bled for the Salvatores, men who know the cost of failure.

"Nobody gets near this room unless I say so," I tell them, my tone leaving no room for argument. "If anyone even tries, you put them in the fucking ground."

"Yes, sir," one of them responds immediately, his hand resting on the gun at his hip. The other nods, equally unflinching.

I linger for a second longer, scanning the hallway, double-checking every blind spot, every angle. I don’t trust easily. Even inside my own walls, I assume the worst. It’s what’s kept me alive this long.

When I step back inside, I find Sofia standing by the window, her fingers resting lightly against the cool glass. She’s staring out, but there’s nothing to see but the sprawling gardens below, darkened by the encroaching night.

"Will they come for me?" she asks suddenly, her voice surprisingly steady.

I move toward her, stopping just a few feet away. "They’d be suicidal if they did."

She lets out a soft breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. "That doesn’t mean they won’t try."

I know she’s right.

The Lombardis don’t give up easily. And if they were bold enough to take her in the first place, to use her as bait, to draw me out—then they’ll be bold enough to try again.

But they won’t get the chance.

I step closer, close enough that I can see the faint pulse at her throat, the way her shoulders tense at my proximity. She’s still in fight mode, still holding herself together with sheer willpower, but she’s exhausted.

I reach out, slow, deliberate, testing the unspoken barrier between us. My knuckles brush against her wrist, a silent reminder that she’s not alone in this.

"You should rest," I tell her. "Your body needs time to recover."

She hesitates, her fingers twitching against the glass, before finally turning to face me. Her eyes search mine, looking for something, but I don’t know what. Reassurance? Certainty? A promise I won’t make but will keep anyway?

Eventually, she nods. Just once.

Wordlessly, she moves to the bed, sitting at the edge before shifting onto her side, curling into herself like she’s trying to take up as little space as possible. She doesn’t bother getting under the sheets, doesn’t bother closing her eyes right away. She just breathes.

It would be easy to walk out, to let her sleep without the weight of me in the room, to give her space to remember who she is without my eyes on her.

But I cross the floor instead. I lower myself into the chair across from her bed, the leather sighing under my weight, the gun resting against my thigh like it belongs there.

The air still tastes like smoke and metal.

My jaw aches from being clenched too long.

There’s blood beneath my fingernails that isn’t hers, and that’s the only reason I’m calm enough to sit still.

She turns her head toward me, eyes fluttering, lashes wet at the corners. Her voice barely makes it out. “You’re staying?”

“Yes.”

Her lips part again, like there’s more she wants to ask, but her body’s already slipping away, breath softening, tension uncoiling from her shoulders in slow, fragile waves.

I watch her as sleep takes her. The rhythm of her breathing. The way her fingers curl into the blanket like she’s still holding on to something.

Then I lean back, eyes on the ceiling, and finally let out the breath I’ve been holding since I pulled her out of that place.

She lies curled on her side, her breath slow and steady now, the tight coil of tension unraveling with each exhale.

The world beyond these walls drifts in like a distant echo—footsteps fading down long corridors, murmured voices dissolving into the hush of night, the wind brushing lazily against the glass.

I ache to stay and watch the way sleep softens the lines of worry on her face. Stay and be here when she wakes, so she doesn’t have to search the dark for something familiar.

But I know what and who’s waiting for me downstairs, and I’ve put this off long enough.

With one last glance at Sofia, I rise from the chair and cross the room. The guards outside straighten the moment I step into the hallway, their eyes flicking to me for orders.

"Stay on this door," I say quietly. "No one gets in. No one gets close."

They nod. They know better than to question me.

I make my way through the corridors, my steps measured and sharp, my pulse steady despite the storm I know I’m walking into.

The estate exhales into stillness, the late hour drawing most of the men into shadowed corners—some slipping into restless sleep, others tending to wounds that whisper of the fight.

But something lingers, drifting through the halls like the last notes of a song, sinking into the floorboards like moonlight that never quite fades.

I find Luca in his study, exactly where I knew he’d be.

The room glows with a quiet, amber warmth, the desk lamp casting soft halos of light that melt into the night beyond the towering windows.

The city shimmers in the distance, its glow bleeding faintly through the glass, distant and unreachable.

Shadows drift along the shelves where Luca stands, fingers resting against the wood as if steadying himself against something unseen.

The whiskey glass waits, untouched, beside a half-empty bottle that seems to hold the weight of unspoken thoughts.

He heard me coming. He’s waiting.

"Did you even think, Marco?" His voice is hushed, steady, each word stretched taut over the edge of restraint, trembling with the fury he refuses to unleash. "Or did you just act on instinct, like a reckless idiot?"

I step inside, letting the door shut behind me. "I thought," I say evenly. "And I made a choice."

Luca turns then, his expression carved from stone, cold and impassive, but his eyes burn.

"A choice that could have cost us everything," he snaps. "You risked the entire family for one woman."

"She’s not just one woman."

Luca tsks bitterly, shaking his head. "That’s the problem, Marco. You let your emotions cloud your judgment. You let them use her against you, and you walked right into their fucking trap."

I ease forward, each step sinking into the quiet like a needle through cloth.

My voice carries no weight, just the sharp edge of suppressed rage.

"And if I hadn’t? If I’d done what you wanted and left her there?

" My head angles, a fraction of movement that cuts deeper than it should.

"Would you have been able to live with that? "

A muscle jumps in his jaw.

I, however, am not finished.

"We call ourselves a family," I continue, with a hint of acid in my tone. "We say we protect our own. But when it came down to it, you were willing to leave her behind. If that’s the kind of family we are, maybe we need to rethink what the hell we actually stand for."

His eyes flash, but before he can respond, the door swings open.

Valentina walks inside.