Page 23 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

MARCO

" I see no sense in asking that question." My fingers curl around the table’s edge, the polished wood unyielding beneath my grip. A dull ache spreads through my jaw as I fight to keep my temper in check.

Morning stretches slowly over the Salvatore estate, golden light spilling through the windowpanes, thick and honeyed.

It drapes itself over the kitchen, pooling in soft, molten ribbons across the marble countertops, kissing the dark wood cabinets with hues of amber and burnt sugar.

Outside, the world is waking—birds stirring in the olive trees, the distant hum of an engine starting in the courtyard.

It should be a moment of beauty. But my mind isn’t in a place where it can appreciate the finer things in life.

The weight of Sofia’s stubbornness presses against my ribs like a vice.

"Because you’re not going back to that life, Sofia."

I want to give her the answer she’s looking for. I want to tell her that nothing could ever change what I feel for her. But I also want to shake her, to make her see how impossible this is. She’s asking me to let her walk into the fire while I stand back and watch.

I grip the edge of the table so hard that my knuckles turn white against the dark wood.

"Marco—"

"No," I say, my voice edged with frustration. "Absolutely not."

Sofia’s gaze doesn’t waver. "Marco?—"

"You’re not going near them again." I push away from the table, pacing, trying to smother the rage curling hot in my chest. "I won’t let you put yourself in that kind of danger."

She lets out a quiet breath, but I don’t miss the steel beneath it. "You won’t let me?"

I turn back to her, jaw tight. "That’s right."

Her lips press together, her fingers curling into the fabric of her dress. "You think you can keep me in a cage? Lock me up in this estate and expect me to just forget what I’ve been working for?"

I breathe in sharply through my teeth, raking a hand through my hair. "I expect you to stay alive."

Her eyes flash. "I am alive. And I refuse to waste it hiding while the Lombardis?—"

"While the Lombardis what ?" I cut her off, stepping closer. "Destroy people? Kill without remorse? I know , Sofia. I’ve lived this life since I was a kid. I’ve seen more bodies than you can count, I’ve cleaned up messes that would make you fucking sick.

And I am telling you—this is a war you won’t win. "

She pushes off the counter. "So that’s it? Just let them keep going? Let them burn this city to the ground while we sit behind these walls and pretend it doesn’t matter?"

My hands flex at my sides. "This isn’t about them . It’s about you ."

A muscle jumps in her jaw. "I can’t just sit back and do nothing, Marco."

"You think I’m asking you to do nothing?" My voice rises. "I’m asking you to fucking stay . To let me handle this. To trust that I would burn this entire city down before I let them touch you again."

Her throat bobs.

But she doesn’t give in.

Instead, she shakes her head, her expression sad. "You’re asking me to be someone I’m not."

My stomach twists.

"You fell for me knowing exactly who I was," she continues. "A woman who doesn’t run. Who doesn’t look the other way. Who doesn’t wait for someone else to save her."

Damn it, she has a point.

She lifts her chin slightly. "So, tell me—what happens if I keep going? If I don’t stop looking into the Lombardis? If I don’t back down?"

How do I explain? How can I tell someone to stay the fuck back when all they want is to court trouble?

Sofia steps closer, so close I can feel the warmth of her body, the barely-there tremble of her fingers as she fists them at her sides. "I repeat my question. Will you still love me then?"

A raw, aching silence stretches between us.

I want to tell her there’s nothing in this world that could make me stop loving her. That I’d kill for her, die for her, burn for her a thousand times over. But the words stick in my throat, tangled in the brutal reality of what she’s asking.

I don’t love weak women. I never have. I love Sofia because she is sharp and relentless and refuses to be broken.

But I’ve also held her bleeding body in my arms. I’ve watched the life drain from her eyes, knowing that if I had been just a second too late, she’d be gone.

I can’t do it again.

I won’t do it again.

I reach for her, cupping her face in my hands, tilting her chin up. "You think I don’t know who you are?" I murmur. "You think I don’t love that fire in you?"

Her lips part, but I don’t let her speak.

"But if you think I’ll sit back and watch while you put yourself in the crosshairs of the men who just fucking took you —" My voice drops to a growl. "Then you don’t know me at all."

Her lashes flutter.

"You are in a cage, Sofia." My thumb drags slowly across her cheekbone, over the fading bruise that still lingers there. "Not because I want to control you. Not because I think you’re weak." I press my forehead to hers, my voice raw. "Because I can’t fucking lose you, and you don’t know how to survive on your own— fuck, don’t even try to lie about it. "

She closes her eyes, her breath shaking against my lips.

I pull her in, wrapping my arms around her, holding her against my chest. Her fingers dig into my shirt, but she doesn’t push me away.

"I get it," I murmur against her hair. "This fight—it’s part of who you are. And you’re not just another woman in my life." I inhale deeply, steadying myself. "So, if this is what you want—if you’re set on this—I’ll find a way to protect you while you do it."

Sofia’s body softens, her fingers loosening against my chest.

I can feel the war still raging inside her, the push and pull of instinct versus reason, her need for control battling against the reality of what she’s up against. And I know—if I force her to stop, if I cage her too tightly—she’ll slip through my fingers.

I can’t let that happen.

"If you’re going to keep doing this, we need to change the approach," I say finally, my voice measured. "No more going out on your own. No more direct confrontations. We’ll set up a network—people you can trust to gather information for you. You’ll stay in the background, analyzing the intel, connecting the dots—away from the front lines. "

Sofia tilts her head, considering, but I don’t miss the flicker of curiosity in her expression. The gears in her mind are already turning, testing the idea, weighing the risks.

"And what about the Salvatore family?" she asks, careful, watching me closely. "I’ve exposed mafia corruption before. I can’t promise to ignore what I find, even if it leads back here."

"You don’t hurt your own, Sofia." My voice is firm. "The Salvatores protect this city in ways you can’t imagine. We have our flaws, but we’re not the Lombardis. If you find something that concerns us, you bring it to me. We handle it in-house. No one else needs to know."

I’m asking her to trust me.

To believe that I can handle our own demons without her dragging them into the light for the world to see.

Sofia studies me for a long moment, her gaze searching mine, trying to decide if she can live with that. The silence stretches, thick with unspoken consequences, until finally, she exhales.

"Okay." She nods, slowly. "I’ll focus on the Lombardis. But I’ll come to you if anything touches the Salvatores." She pauses. "But Marco, I need you to promise me something too."

"Anything."

Sofia leans in slightly, her dark eyes piercing into mine.

"Promise me that if I find something truly wrong—something that needs to be exposed—you’ll listen.

You won’t just sweep it under the rug because it’s convenient.

I need to know that you’re not just another man protecting his own interests, that you care about what’s right. "

She doesn’t blink.

She’s asking for more than just words—she’s asking for something real, something binding. A promise that will cost me, one way or another.

I hesitate. Just for a second.

Then I nod. "I promise, Sofia." My voice is low, steady. "If it’s something that can’t be ignored, we’ll deal with it together."

Her shoulders loosen slightly. The tension between us shifts—not gone, but settled into something else. An agreement. A quiet truce.

But I know better than to think this is the end of it.

Later in the day, I step out into the open air, inhaling deep, trying to clear my head. The estate is alive with movement—men stationed at the gates, patrolling the grounds, some gathered in small clusters, their voices low. Security has been doubled since Sofia was taken. Luca’s orders.

As I move through the courtyard, I feel the glances.

Not the usual deference I’m used to. There’s something else now—something wary. Suspicious.

I shake it off. It’s been a long few days. The men are tense. Everyone’s on edge. That’s all it is.

But the feeling lingers.

I make my way toward the main hall, but before I step inside, I catch something. A voice—low, careful. Not meant for me.

"—can’t just pretend nothing’s changed."

I stop.

The voices are coming from the side passage near the garages, where a few of the younger soldiers are gathered, speaking in clipped, quiet tones.

"She’s a fucking journalist." The words are edged with bitterness. "We follow Luca, but we see what Marco’s doing. Protecting her. Prioritizing her work. You really think that’s what’s best for the family?"

Silence.

Then, another voice, rougher. "Some of us are starting to wonder where his loyalties really lie."

An insidious heat curls in my gut.

I step forward, my shoes scuffing against the stone path purposefully this time. The voices cut off instantly.

The men freeze as I approach.

One of them—Diego, a mid-rank soldier who’s been trying too hard to climb—clears his throat, straightens his stance. His eyes flick to the others, then back to me.

He’s the one who opens his mouth, the first to say what the others have been circling around like cowards too afraid to speak plain.

“We’re all wondering, Marco,” he says, voice measured, trying to sound respectful when every word drips with challenge, “how long you’re going to let that woman dictate your decisions. ”

Silence follows, thick and sharp, the kind that makes men shift in their seats without meaning to.

No one speaks. No one breathes too loud.

But no one stops him either. That’s the part that matters.

They let him speak for them. They let him carry the insult, thinking maybe I’d let it slide if it came from Diego’s mouth and not theirs.

I step forward slowly, letting the implication of who I am press into the room like a hand closing around a throat. There is no need for me to raise my voice. Power doesn’t shout, it settles, waits, and compels the room to adjust around it.

Diego meets my eyes, straight on, and to his credit, he doesn’t step back. But I see it. The pause. The glint. That split second where he remembers who he’s talking to and wishes he’d worded it differently.

He’s right to hesitate.

Because what just came out of his mouth?

That wasn’t a question. That was a mistake.