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

My thoughts flicker to Valentina, my best friend. Forced into a marriage with Luca Salvatore to pay off her family’s debts. It’s a life she never asked for, and one I know she’ll never truly escape—even though she acts like she’s part of it.

But as much as I hate Luca Salvatore and what he represents, even I have to admit he’s different from the Lombardis. The Salvatores take care of the people who fall through the cracks—sponsoring schools, funding shelters, paying for hospital bills when no one else will.

The Lombardis? They destroy. They bleed the city dry. They steal people’s lives and leave the corpses behind as a warning.

That thought fuels me as I gather my notes, shoving them into a manila folder and tucking it under my arm. I gather my notes, clutching them tightly as I head out of the office. I have a meeting to get to, and if it goes well, I may be that much closer to the Lombardis.

Outdoors, the city glows under the fading light of dusk, the streets of Nuova Speranza alive with a pulsing rhythm all their own. Neon signs buzz to life above storefronts, their harsh colors spilling onto the pavement, mingling with the warm golden glow of streetlights.

People brush past me in waves, their faces a blur of indifference as they rush toward wherever they need to be. But I walk slower, my mind racing faster than my feet, the implications of the meeting with Daniel and the editorial team still pressing on my chest.

I grip the strap of my bag tighter as I weave through the crowds, my senses sharp, every sound and movement heightened by an undercurrent of unease.

The streets are loud, chaotic, but I know this city too well. There’s a beat to its madness, a rhythm you can feel if you live here long enough.

And tonight, something about the rhythm feels off.

My heart thuds a little harder as I cross onto a quieter street. The noise fades behind me, replaced by the faint echo of my boots clicking against the pavement.

The city’s heartbeat slows here, the lights dimmer, the air heavier. I turn a corner into an alley, the kind of shortcut I’ve taken a hundred times before, and that’s when I see it.

A sleek black car glides to a stop beside me, its tinted windows impenetrable. The hair on the back of my neck rises, and my grip tightens on the strap of my bag as the driver’s door opens.

A man steps out, dressed in a dark suit tailored so perfectly that it might as well be armor. He moves with purpose, his expression cold, his eyes like shards of onyx as they lock onto me.

"Sofia De Luca." His voice is smooth like butter. "You’ve been busy."

I freeze, my pulse thundering in my ears. Every instinct screams at me to run, but I stand my ground, lifting my chin to meet his gaze. "I don’t know what you’re talking about," I say, my voice steady despite the hammering in my chest.

The man takes a step closer, his polished shoes silent against the pavement. "Don’t play dumb. You’re poking around in places you shouldn’t, Miss De Luca. The Lombardis don’t appreciate the attention."

My breath catches, and I take an involuntary step back. "I’m a journalist. It’s my job to ask questions."

"Some questions don’t have answers," he says, his lips curving into a cold smile. "Some stories are better left untold—for your sake."

I glance over his shoulder, calculating the distance to the main street. It’s too far. My heart pounds as he steps closer, his voice dropping lower.

"This is your only warning," he says, his tone chillingly casual, as if we’re discussing the weather. "Stop digging, or next time we won’t be so polite."

Adrenaline floods my veins, and I make my decision. I run.

My feet slam against the pavement, the sound echoing in the narrow alley as I sprint toward the main street. I don’t look back—I don’t need to. I can hear the sharp click of his shoes behind me, the steady rhythm terrifying in its precision.

My lungs burn as I push harder, rounding a corner and nearly colliding with a group of people outside a coffee shop.

"Sorry," I gasp, slipping past them and ducking into the crowd. The sounds of the city rush in around me like a protective wall—honking cars, snippets of laughter, the distant thrum of a street musician’s guitar.

I force myself to slow down, blending into the chaos, my heart still pounding as I glance over my shoulder.

The man is gone.

But the fear lingers, crawling up my spine like cold fingers. I duck into the coffee shop without thinking, the bell above the door chiming as I step inside. The scent of roasted beans and cinnamon envelops me like a calming balm, but it does nothing to slow the frantic rhythm of my pulse.

I make my way to the counter, my hand still gripping the strap of my bag like it’s a lifeline.

"One cold brew coffee, please," I say, my voice tight as I fumble with my wallet.

The barista nods, moving with the kind of unhurried ease that feels alien in this moment. I tap my fingers against the counter. When the barista sets the glass down in front of me, I take it without waiting for the change and head to a corner table near the window.

I pull out my phone, my fingers trembling as I type a quick message to Daniel Voss.

Something happened. Possible threat from Lombardi goons. Will explain later.

I hit send and take another shaky sip of my coffee, willing myself to breathe.

I can’t let this shake me. After a few minutes, the tightness in my chest loosens, and I stand, tossing the empty cup into the trash on my way out.

I merge back into the throng of people on the street, keeping my head low and my pace brisk.

When the gleaming glass tower of the Nuova Speranza Network finally looms into view, I let out a shaky breath. The lobby buzzes with activity as executives and producers move with the kind of urgency only power and money can demand.

The atmosphere feels safe—sterile, even—after what I’ve just been through.

I clutch my folder tightly, the leather warm against my palm as I step into the elevator. The doors slide shut with a soft whoosh, sealing me inside a momentary bubble of quiet.

But even as I watch the floor numbers climb, the knots in my chest don’t loosen.

I remind myself of the stakes. This meeting is everything. If NSN agrees to back me, my story won’t just make ripples, it’ll be a tidal wave. The Lombardis won’t be able to bury this, no matter how deep their pockets go.

The elevator dings, and the doors glide open. I step out, squaring my shoulders and steeling my resolve.

This meeting is my chance to take this investigation to the next level. NSN’s reach is unparalleled, their platform a megaphone that could amplify my findings to an audience far beyond the readership of the Times.

If I can get them on board, the Lombardis won’t just have to worry about whispers—they’ll have to face a reckoning.

The conference room on the fourteenth floor is all glass and chrome, the table long enough to seat twenty. The three executives waiting for me are polished, their smiles practiced and their suits immaculate.

"Miss De Luca," one of them says, extending a hand. "We’ve heard a lot about you."

"Good things, I hope." I force a smile as I shake his hand and take a seat.

The first half of the meeting goes as expected. I lay out my findings, walking them through the evidence step by step.

Their eyes widen at the testimonies, their brows furrow at the financial records, and I can see the wheels turning as I describe the corruption and violence that the Lombardis have built their empire on.

"This is incredible work," one of the executives says, his voice tinged with awe. "If this is true—and I don’t doubt that it is—this story could change everything."

But then, his phone buzzes. He answers it with a curt, "Excuse me," stepping out of the room. When he returns, everything changes.

The air grows colder, the smiles tighter. The questions become more pointed, their enthusiasm replaced by caution.

"What kind of legal risks are we looking at here?" one asks.

"And what about the safety of our staff?" adds another, her tone clipped.

I push back, passionately defending the importance of the story, but it’s clear that the tide has turned.

"Look," the first executive finally says, his voice heavy with something unspoken. "We’ve been advised to steer clear of anything involving the Lombardis. Liability concerns. You understand."

Advised. The word hangs in the air, and I know exactly what it means.

The meeting ends with polite handshakes and vague promises to "revisit this in the future". I walk out of the building feeling like the walls are closing in around me.

As I step onto the street, my phone rings. The name Detective Enrico Marino flashes on the screen.

"Marino?" I answer, my voice tight.

"Sofia." His voice is urgent. "We need to talk."

"What is it?"

"I’m hearing things," he says, each word like a stone dropping into my stomach. "The Lombardis—they’ve put a hit out on you."

I stop dead in my tracks, the noise of the city fading into a dull roar.

"You need to lay low." Marino’s voice is hoarse with fear. "They’re not just threatening you anymore, Sofia. They’re planning to act. You need to disappear. Now."

The line goes dead.