Page 25 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

SOFIA

T he evening is supposed to be different. A breath of fresh air. A reminder that life exists beyond bloodstained streets and whispered threats.

I spent the last hour carefully planning something normal —a quiet dinner, an elegant restaurant where no one would be armed to the teeth, no one would be watching our every move with suspicion.

A place where Marco and I could pretend, just for a little while, that we weren’t tangled in the middle of a war.

Hours searching for the perfect restaurant, combing through reviews, wanting somewhere intimate but not suffocating, upscale but not drenched in the weight of money and politics, made me settle on Rosetta, a quiet, candlelit spot nestled in the heart of the city, known for its handmade pasta and wine list that is long enough to make even a sommelier pause.

I booked a corner table—semi-private, where the shadows curled at the edges but still let the light kiss our faces.

Somewhere we could talk without prying eyes, without the weight of expectation.

I’d even called ahead to ensure they’d have Marco’s favorite—aged Barolo, smooth and deep, something he could sip slowly.

After that, I took my time getting ready. For myself as much as for him.

The dress was the first decision. Nothing too overt, nothing too cold .

I chose a deep shade of burgundy, rich and elegant, the kind of color that felt like me —bold, without needing to beg for attention.

The silk molded to my skin in all the right places, the high slit offering just enough temptation, but not in the way he was used to.

This wasn’t for seduction. This was for the version of us that existed before all of this.

Little things that I’d never do, given what I’ve been through the last couple days, like wanting to look nice.

A sweep of liner to frame my eyes, a hint of warmth on my lips.

I didn’t want to look like a woman trying too hard to escape the past few days, but I wanted to see myself in the mirror and remember who I was before all of this, back to when Marco would visit my home and we’d just have sex, or read books, or watch movies and eat good food.

The final touch: perfume. A light press of it at my wrists and just below my throat. By the time I was ready, my heart felt lighter than it had in days. We needed this . I needed this.

Which brings me to the present.

I make my way through the mansion to find him. There’s a lightness in my step, a warmth in my chest that I haven’t felt in too long.

Of course it doesn’t last. Peace never does in this house.

Not when the walls are still learning how to hold it.

Raised voices bleed into the corridor ahead—fast, urgent, overlapping in that way that tells me this isn’t just tension.

It’s coming undone. I slow, just enough to listen, just enough to read the edges of it.

The tone, the rhythm, the desperation clawing through the sound.

Then a crash. Not an accident. Glass, by the sound of it, and not from a hand that slipped. Thrown. Smashed. The kind of sound that used to mean a bottle in the alley, a warning before the blade.

The warmth I carried from the last room drains out of me, quick and clean, replaced by cold dread.

Something I haven’t shaken since the day Marino died because of my foolishness.

I pick up my pace. The steps echo underfoot, concrete and tension carrying me toward the noise.

The voices are clearer now—clipped, frantic, too fast to be controlled.

This isn’t an argument anymore. This is the moment after control has been lost, when pride slips and something uglier takes its place.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Then?—

A gunshot.

The sound rips through the mansion like a lightning strike, freezing me in place for half a breath before my body reacts on instinct. I run .

The hallway blurs as I shove forward, reaching the heavy door and pushing it open with both hands.

And suddenly, I’m inside a nightmare.

The stench of gunpowder clings to every surface, curling into the unseen spaces between shadows.

Blood paints the floor in jagged strokes, deep crimson spreading in slow, creeping pools beneath bodies that will never rise again.

Some men groan, their pain twisting through the silence like a dying prayer. Others lie still.

And in the center of it all is Marco.

He stands with terrifying stillness, his body loose but charged, like a predator that has already decided the kill is inevitable.

A gun rests steady in his grip, the barrel still smoking.

Antonio Mancini is backed into a corner, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts, his temple slick with blood. His gaze flickers to the bodies on the floor, then back to Marco, his expression a war between fear and defiance.

Marco tilts his head, slow, assessing.

"You thought you could undermine me, Mancini?" His voice is quiet, but lethal, each syllable a loaded chamber.

Mancini swallows. His fists clench at his sides. He doesn’t answer.

Marco takes a step closer. The gun doesn’t waver.

"You should have known better."

He raises the gun, leveling it at Mancini’s head.

My body pushes forward on instinct. The second Marco lifts his gun, the second his finger tightens on the trigger, I shove forward, placing myself between him and Mancini. "Marco, stop! "

My voice shakes, but it says everything I can’t put into words. Everything that has been haunting me since witnessing Marino die.

For a heartbeat, no one breathes. I stare up at him, my chest heaving, my pulse hammering so hard it drowns out every other sound. Marco’s gaze locks onto mine, his expression black with rage. The deadly intent behind it terrifies me.

This isn’t the man who held me last night, whispering promises against my skin. This isn’t the man who touched me like I was something sacred, who kissed me like he was drowning and I was his only breath.

This is the ruthless underboss, the cold executioner.

And I don’t recognize him. "Marco, please ," I whisper, my voice raw. "You don’t have to do this."

His jaw flexes. His eyes flick to mine, searching, burning.

Then—

A sudden movement.

Mancini takes his chance.

He lunges for the door, knocking over a table in his path, sending a stack of papers and a whiskey glass crashing to the floor. The sound shatters the momentary trance between Marco and me.

Rage flashes in his eyes, and before I can stop him, he shoves me aside. "Marco?—!"

The gun goes off.

The deafening crack echoes through the room. I flinch, stumbling back, my hands flying to my ears as the bullet slams into the doorframe just inches from Mancini’s shoulder.

He doesn’t stop running.

Marco curses under his breath, his body tensed like a predator who just lost his prey.

I can barely process what’s happening—the blood on the floor, the bodies groaning in pain, the violent, furious storm raging in Marco’s eyes.

This is chaos. This is hell.

Mancini is almost out the door, his breath ragged, his steps uneven as he barrels down the hall.

Marco doesn’t hesitate.

"After him!" he roars.

The command snaps his men into motion. Three of them bolt toward the exit, their footsteps thunderous as they chase down the traitor.

I just stand there, frozen, my pulse a wild, erratic beat in my ears.

This isn’t a game. This isn’t one of my investigations where the violence stays at a comfortable distance, where I write about bloodshed without being covered in it.

This is real.

This is Marco’s world.

And I don’t know if I can survive in it.

The door slams shut behind the last man to leave, leaving only the two of us in the wreckage. The silence that follows is suffocating, thick with tension and the scent of gunpowder.

I force myself to look at Marco.

His back rises and falls with his heavy breaths, his fingers still curled around the gun, his entire body rigid with fury. He looks untouchable.

Like a god of war, untamed and unrepentant.

Then he turns to me.

And I see it .

The fury, the raw power, the sharp, ice-cold edges of a man who has never been afraid to kill.

"I won’t let him get away," Marco growls, his voice dangerously low, sending a chill down my spine. "He betrayed the family. He’s as good as dead."

My heart is hammering against my ribs, my pulse a frantic, uneven rhythm that drowns out everything but the sound of my own ragged breathing. The acrid stench of gunpowder curls in my throat, turning my stomach.

Marco is still standing there, his gun loose in his hand, but his body is coiled tight, his muscles wound like he’s barely holding himself together. His eyes—dark, wild, merciless—pin me in place.

This is a version of him I want to run from.

"This…" My voice breaks, my throat tightening, but I force myself to push through it. " This isn’t right."

His gaze flickers, just for a second.

"You can’t just kill people like this, Marco." My voice trembles, thick with emotion, but I don’t back down. "You can’t let this darkness consume you."

He exhales sharply through his nose, like he’s barely restraining himself. "You don’t get it, Sofia."

"I do." I take a step forward, closing the space between us, my heart pounding so hard I swear he can hear it. "I know what this world is. I know what you’ve had to do to survive in it. But that doesn’t mean it has to own you. It doesn’t have to make you into this."

A muscle tics in his jaw. "You don’t know what you’re asking of me."

I shake my head, my fingers trembling as I wrap my arms around myself. "If this life destroys who you are, then what good is anything? What good is a future if I have to live every day wondering whether one of the bullets you fire will find it’s way back to your own skull?"

He stills.

I can see the battle in his eyes, the war raging inside him between who he wants to be and the man standing in front of me now—the one with blood on his hands, with the weight of an empire pressing down on his shoulders.

For a moment, I think I’ve gotten through to him.

Then his expression hardens.

His shoulders roll back, his stance shifting, and when he speaks, his voice is steel.

"This is my world, Sofia," he says, slow and deliberate, like he’s making sure I understand every single word. "What did you think I do for a living? Push papers? Run a goddamn charity?"

I flinch, but he doesn’t stop.

"If you can’t make peace with it, you’re in for a world of pain."

His words slam into me like a punch to the gut.

I can’t make peace with it.

I don’t think I ever will.

Marco steps closer, his presence suffocating, his voice softer now, but no less deadly. "I can’t just let this go. I have to protect what’s mine. Even if that means being someone you might not recognize."

His words settle like lead in my stomach.

Someone I might not recognize.

Someone who could do this—who could kill, who could execute a man in cold blood, who could make a decision in the span of a heartbeat that ends a life.

And I love him.

God help me, I love him.

But I don’t know if I can live like this.

The edges of my vision blur, the room tilting, my head light, my body suddenly, violently rejecting everything I’ve just witnessed.

A wave of nausea crashes over me, swift and brutal.

I turn on my heel, needing to get out, needing air , needing space ?—

But I don’t make it.

The sickness claws up my throat, tearing through me too fast to stop it.

Before I can reach the door, I vomit.