Page 24 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

MARCO

D iego knows he’s just crossed a line. The question is whether he’s smart enough to walk it back.

"You dare question my loyalty?" My voice is quiet, but it cuts through the humid afternoon air like a razor.

Diego straightens, forcing his shoulders back. "I didn’t mean?—"

I lunge in a sharp, brutal movement. My hand snaps out, gripping the front of his shirt, dragging him closer until our noses nearly touch. The others don’t interfere. They wouldn’t dare.

"Say it again," I murmur, my voice utterly calm, almost lazy. The kind of calm that should make a man’s blood run cold.

A slow ripple runs beneath his skin, something restrained but restless. His throat tightens around a hard swallow. "I just meant?—"

"You meant to challenge me," I cut in, my grip turning unrelenting. "You meant to say, in front of my men, that I can’t be trusted."

The others—three soldiers in their mid-thirties, loyal but not stupid—watch with unease. They won’t back Diego up, but they also won’t forget what just happened here. They’re waiting. Gauging my reaction.

That’s what this is. A test.

This is not Luca’s doing. I wondered, for one second, if he was doing this to challenge my loyalty to Sofia. No, if this were Luca, he’d come at me directly and ask me to back the fuck away. Luca didn’t plant this seed of doubt. It grew on its own.

I let go of Diego with a sharp shove, sending him stumbling back half a step. He doesn’t fall, but the message is clear. He knows he’s overstepped. He just doesn’t know what will happen next.

I tilt my head, considering him.

"You’re young," I say. "New to the family. Maybe you don’t understand how things work yet."

His jaw flexes, but he holds his tongue.

I narrow my eyes at him. "You don’t question my decisions. You don’t question my loyalty. And if you have doubts, you keep them to your fucking self."

I let the silence hang for a beat longer, letting him feel it.

Then I step back. "Get out of my sight."

Diego winces—just for a fraction of a second—but then he nods stiffly and turns, walking away, his movements tense. The other men exchange looks before following.

I don’t watch them go.

Instead, I turn and glance back toward the estate. The walls loom high, cast in sharp contrast against the afternoon sun, a fortress built to withstand anything. A legacy of power. A kingdom, in all but name.

But a kingdom is only as strong as the men who hold the line.

And right now, they’re watching me.

Waiting for a misstep.

It’s not the first time my loyalty has been questioned. Not the first time men have whispered behind my back. But this feels different because they’re watching me in relation to the woman at my side, trying to gauge if I’ll put her before the family business. They think she’s a weakness.

They think she’s pulling me in a direction that doesn’t serve the family.

And that? That’s a problem.

Because Luca might be the one who sits at the head of this family, but I’ve always been the one who holds it together. The one who stands at his right hand, trusted beyond question. The one who handles things in the dark so the Salvatores can shine in the light.

If the men start to doubt me—if they stop trusting my judgment—then the entire foundation we’ve built starts to crack.

And Sofia…

Sofia is the wedge in that crack.

I start walking, my steps quick and quiet. My thoughts sharpen with each footfall, turning over the possibilities, the consequences.

She’s safe. For now. That should be enough.

But it isn’t. Not when one of my own stood in front of the others and dared to question me like I hadn’t dragged this family up from nothing.

Like the blood on my hands was borrowed instead of earned.

One voice is all it takes. A little noise, and suddenly men who owe everything to me forget how they got here.

They forget the dirt under their nails, the prison beds, the street corners soaked in rain and gasoline.

They forget that we weren’t born into this life—we took it, piece by piece, while the old families laughed at us from their cigar-stained estates and said we wouldn’t last the year.

My thoughts are restless all the way into the estate, even as the familiar and otherwise comforting embrace of aged wood and cigar smoke wrap around me. Somewhere in the distance, the low murmur of voices drifts through the corridors, but I don’t stop to listen.

The chandeliers glow dimly overhead, their golden reflections gliding along the polished marble floors like ghosts. The corridors stretch ahead of me, long and quiet, their towering columns casting elongated shadows in the fading afternoon light.

Dust motes swirl in the air, catching the last rays of sun filtering through the stained-glass windows at the far end of the hall—saints and martyrs frozen in colorful glass, staring down in judgment.

I make my way toward my private quarters, each step measured, each thought turning over itself.

The men are questioning me.

And I can feel it—like the first shift in the wind before a storm, like the sharp tang of rain on the horizon.

I push open the heavy mahogany doors to my suite and step inside. The room is vast, but the darkness makes it feel smaller, more enclosed. The curtains are half-drawn, letting in fractured light that stretches across the Persian rugs and the dark leather of the armchairs.

A sleek, black gun sits on the edge of my desk, half-forgotten beside an empty tumbler of whiskey from last night. The scent of oak and charred vanilla lingers in the air, clinging to the crystal decanter still holding what’s left of the bottle.

I shut the door behind me, the click of the lock settling into place like a final, unspoken truth.

Someone has fed the fire of disloyalty.

I need to find out who.

I push open the heavy double doors to my suite and step inside, exhaling slowly.

The room is dark, save for the slanted streams of sunlight cutting through the curtains.

A half-empty tumbler of whiskey from the night before sits on the bar cart, the amber liquid catching the light.

The scent of leather and smoke lingers in the air, familiar, grounding.

Perhaps going to Luca directly and asking clean questions would solve all my problems. It could help to demand to know where he stands on this.

Because whether he orchestrated it or not, he knows. He always knows.

But as I reach for my phone to call him, it vibrates in my hand.

I glance at the screen, and a name flashes across it—one of my trusted informants. Someone I keep on the inside, someone who has never wasted my time with rumors or speculation.

Got something you need to see. Not Luca. Someone else. Check your encrypted inbox.

A slow, cold current slides down my spine.

I move to my desk, unlock the secure tablet, and pull up the encrypted messaging service I use for sensitive intel. A new file sits at the top of the queue. I tap it open, my eyes narrowing as I skim through the contents.

And then my blood runs cold.

Antonio Mancini.

The name sits there like a bomb waiting to detonate.

The report is thorough—whispers of meetings held behind closed doors, men who have started looking to Mancini for direction, soldiers who have begun to question if they should still be following me. Not Luca. Me.

My grip tightens around the tablet, my knuckles going white.

Mancini has always been a wildcard, a man who thrives in the gray areas of power. He’s been useful over the years, handling logistics, making deals that require a certain kind of finesse. But he’s never had ambition beyond his station.

Or so I thought.

If he’s rallying men against me, if he’s the one planting these seeds of doubt, then this isn’t just a minor rebellion. This is the start of something bigger.

Something that could tear this family apart.

I set the tablet down carefully.

Then I lean back against my desk, crossing my arms over my chest, staring at the information in front of me.

One wrong move, and this explodes.

Luca will see this as a direct threat, and he won’t hesitate to put Mancini in the ground.

But that’s not what worries me.

What worries me is the fact that Mancini didn’t come for Luca.

He came for me.

And that means he thinks I’m vulnerable.

I exhale sharply, pushing away from the desk, rolling my shoulders to release the tension curling hot along my spine. My pulse is steady, but my mind is racing, running through every possible angle, every move Mancini could make next.

There’s only one way to handle this.

I need to get to him before he makes his next move.

Before this poison spreads any further.

My fingers curl into fists at my sides, my jaw tightening as I come to a single, undeniable conclusion.

Mancini is a problem.

And I don’t leave problems unsolved.