Page 26 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

SOFIA

T he world tilts, pressing in too fast, too sharp.

I brace a hand against the doorframe, sucking in air, but it does nothing to steady the nausea still churning inside me.

My throat burns, the acrid taste of bile clinging to my tongue, and the humiliation of it—of losing control like that, of breaking apart in front of Marco—lodges itself deep in my ribs.

I can feel him watching me, lips parted slightly in shock.

Not just watching—assessing.

Every part of him is still wound tight from the confrontation, but there’s something else in his stance now.

Concern, suspicion. That sharp, all-consuming focus of his, the one that never lets anything slip past him.

I can already see the way his mind is working, fitting together pieces I don’t want him to touch.

I need to get ahead of this.

I push off the doorframe, straightening as much as I can, even as my body sways slightly in protest. "It’s nothing," I manage, voice hoarse.

Marco’s eyes narrow. "Sofia?—"

"Food poisoning," I cut in, forcing a weak smile. "I think something I ate earlier didn’t sit right."

It’s a gamble.

I never get sick. He knows that.

But Marco also knows I’ve spent the last few days in a whirlwind of stress, and it’s just enough of a plausible excuse that I see the flicker of doubt in his expression.

His gaze drags over me. "Food poisoning."

I nod, pressing a hand lightly against my stomach as if I’m still feeling the aftermath. "I just need to lie down for a while. I’ll be fine."

It’s a lie.

I’m not fine.

Because this isn’t food poisoning.

And I know it.

Marco doesn’t move for a moment, his stare drilling into me like he can strip away the words I’m giving him and see the truth underneath. But finally, with a sharp inhale, he exhales through his nose and takes a step back.

"You’re going to bed," he says, and it isn’t a suggestion.

I don’t argue. I need space.

I brush past him, ignoring the way his fingers twitch at his sides like he wants to reach for me, like he wants to demand something from me that I’m not ready to give.

I don’t go to bed.

Instead, as soon as I’ve put a reasonable distance between the both of us, I grab my phone and leave the room.

I need answers.

I need Valentina.

The thought of saying it out loud—even to her—pulls something tight in my chest, but she’s the only person I trust with this. She’s the only one who won’t shape my thoughts before I’ve even grasped the truth myself.

The mansion has settled into a hushed lull, most of the men outside, focused on the fallout of tonight’s disaster. I move through the corridors, down the stairs, until I reach Valentina’s suite.

I knock twice.

The door swings open almost immediately, and before I can even get a word out, Valentina’s brows pull together.

"Sofia?" Her eyes sweep over me, taking in my too-pale skin, the tension in my shoulders. "What’s wrong?"

I don’t answer until she steps aside, lets me in, and closes the door behind me.

Not until I turn to her and force the words out, my voice barely above a whisper.

"I think I might be pregnant."

For a second, she just stares at me.

Then, her hands fly to her mouth. "Oh my God."

I swallow hard, my throat dry. "I don’t know for sure. But I’m late. And now…this." I gesture vaguely at myself, at the nausea that’s been coming in waves for days, at the way my body feels foreign to me in a way I can’t explain.

Valentina exhales sharply, then pulls me into a tight hug.

I don’t even realize I’m shaking until she holds me still.

Her voice is softer when she speaks again. "Does Marco know?"

I pull back immediately, shaking my head. "No. And he can’t. Not until I know for sure."

Valentina’s expression turns cautious. "Sofia?—"

"I mean it," I say, gripping her hands. "Not a word. Promise me."

She studies me, her lips pressing together. Then, finally, she nods. "Okay."

Relief washes through me.

And then—before I can let myself dwell on what this might mean, before I can spiral again—Valentina squeezes my hand and pulls out her phone.

"Let’s find out," she says simply.

I stare at her, my mind unable to process even the simplest of words. She gives me a small, epmathetic smile. "I’ll book an appointment. We’ll go tomorrow. Just us."

I nod, exhaling shakily. "On the pretext of shopping."

She smirks. "Obviously."

And just like that, the first step is taken. I breathe a little easier, knowing the next morning won’t be all that difficult.

Or so I think, until I meet Marco the next morning and he hears what I mean to do.

"Why can't my men bring you what you need?" For a moment, the question annoys me to the point that I feel like Captain Haddock being detained from buying a pack of smokes for himself. Next thing I know, I’ll be blistering barnacles and knocking out guards for the crime of wanting to go out.

Marco’s grip tightens around my wrist, his thumb pressing against the delicate skin there like he’s trying to anchor me in place. His voice is sharp, edged with restlessness.

I tilt my head, giving him a small, knowing smile. "I like shopping, Marco. And I like living my life. Last I knew, neither of these things are considered crimes."

His jaw tics as he stares at me, and I can see he’s fighting back the urge to shoo me back to my rooms. He’s not about to win this.

It’s been like this since forever. Since the warehouse. Since Mancini ran, and Marco sent his men after him with orders that promised only one outcome. I still don’t know if they caught him. I haven’t asked. And Marco hasn’t told me.

Instead, he’s been watching me like I’m something fragile—like one wrong move and I’ll shatter at his feet.

But I won’t.

So, I keep my voice light, casual, like I don’t notice the way his body coils, bracing for a fight. "It’s just shopping, Marco. A normal day. You can spare me that, can’t you?"

His fingers flex. "The Lombardis still have a hit out on you, Sofia."

"And yet, I’m still breathing."

His expression darkens.

I press a palm to his chest, right over the steady thrum of his heartbeat. "I won’t be gone long. Valentina will be with me. We’ll stay in the busy parts of town."

"You think that’ll stop them?"

"I think," I murmur, "that if I don’t get out of this house, I might go insane."

Marco exhales through his nose, his hand sliding from my wrist to my hip, his grip firm. "You’re testing me."

"Always."

His lips part—like he has something else to say, something final—but then he clamps his jaw shut.

And then, after a long pause, he lets me go.

It’s not surrender. But it’s enough.

Valentina picks me up an hour later, and we spend the morning in the city like two women with no troubles at all.

First, the clinic. It’s quick, discreet. I sit in the exam room while Valentina flips through an outdated fashion magazine, her foot bouncing against the linoleum. The nurse takes my samples, gives me a warm, neutral smile, and tells me I’ll have results in a few hours.

A few hours.

It feels like a lifetime.

So we leave, and Valentina insists on making a day of it.

Lunch at a quiet café in the city center.

Shopping in the designer district, where I let her drag me into one boutique after another, pretending like the weight in my stomach isn’t growing heavier with every passing moment.

She buys things—shoes, a dress she swears she needs, another pair of earrings to add to her already ridiculous collection.

I try to focus on the normalcy of it, the easy, effortless way she flits from one thing to the next.

But my mind is elsewhere.

Still caught in the sterile, too-bright light of the exam room.

Still thinking about the quiet way Valentina looked at me this morning.

Still dreading what the results will say.

By the time we return to the estate, the sun is beginning its descent, casting the sky in rich golds and soft purples.

I step through the front doors, already bracing myself for what I know is waiting.

And I don’t have to wait long.

Marco is there, standing in the middle of the grand foyer, his hands braced on his hips, his expression dark and thunderous.

His shoulders are tense beneath the crisp fabric of his shirt, his entire body wound tight, like he’s been standing here for hours just waiting for me to walk through the door.

"You were gone too long."

I sigh, setting my bag down on the nearest table. "We had lunch, walked around?—"

"You were supposed to be back hours ago."

I turn to him, arching a brow. "Am I under curfew now?"

He scowls deeply at me. "If that’s what it takes."

Heat flares beneath my skin, a slow, burning ember. "You don’t own me, Marco."

He steps closer. "No?" His voice drops growing lower, rougher. "Then why do I feel like I’m constantly chasing you down, trying to keep you safe while you run straight into the fire?"

"I didn’t run into anything," I snap. "I had lunch."

"You were out in the open. Anyone could have seen you."

"They didn’t."

"You don’t know that."

I make a little sound, frustration curling tight in my chest. "This isn’t just about today, is it?"

Marco doesn’t answer.

Because we both know it isn’t.

It’s about last night. About Mancini. About what I saw.

What I tried to stop.

And Marco—he doesn’t know what to do with that. With me.

He steps even closer, the heat of his body licking against mine, and before I can stop him, before I can take a single breath, he backs me up against the wall. The impact isn’t rough, but it steals the air from my lungs anyway.

Marco looms over me, his body caging mine in, his hand braced against the wall beside my head.

It’d be so much simpler if I could push him away, make it clear he can’t just erase our argument with proximity and heat.

But then he grips my chin between his fingers, tilting my face up, forcing me to meet his eyes.

"Tell me," he murmurs, his voice like gravel, "tell me you don’t love pushing me to the edge. "

My pulse pounds against my ribs. "Marco?—"

His lips melt against mine, and then he’s kissing me roughly, furiously, like I’m the only person in the world who can keep him sane. Maybe I am. Maybe that’s why he’s like this.

It’s like he’s trying to brand me with his anger, with his possessiveness, with the desperation simmering just beneath the surface.

And God help me?—

I kiss him back.

His mouth is fire, searing through me, burning away the last of my resistance.

I want to push him away, to tell him I’m still furious, still unsteady, that the distance between us isn’t so easily closed. But my body betrays me, drawn to him in a way that defies reason, defies the wreckage still settling between us.

But none of that matters. Nothing else exists.

Not with his hands branding my waist, dragging me into the heat of him, leaving no space, no air, no escape.

Not with his mouth crashing against mine, fierce and unrelenting, like he’s chasing something he lost—like he’s starving and I’m the only thing that will ever satisfy him.

Not when I know—deep down, where the truth aches the most—that this might be the last time.

The last time I touch him like this.

The last time I let myself drown in him, in us, in the way we fit together despite the chaos, despite the blood, despite the war raging inside and around both of us.

Marco’s fingers slide into my hair, fisting it gently as he deepens the kiss, swallowing the soft gasp that escapes me. He’s not being careful.

This is a man who’s on the edge.

A man who’s just as lost as I am.

And I let him take me under.

Let him pull me into the storm.

Because tonight, I don’t want to think about what will happen next.

I don’t want to think about the secret clawing at my insides, waiting to rip through my life like a blade.

I don’t want to think about the fact that the man I love is drowning in this world, and I don’t know if I can keep swimming beside him.

I just want to feel.

His lips leave mine, trailing along my jaw, down the column of my throat. His breath is hot, ragged, as he presses me harder against the wall, his body a solid, unyielding force against mine.

I tremble beneath his touch, my heart pounding so wildly it feels like he could pull it straight from my chest.

His fingers drift down my sides, slow, deliberate, and when his mouth finds the sensitive spot just below my ear, a quiet, helpless sound escapes me.

He exhales, low and uneven, like that noise sent a shiver down his spine, like he felt it as much as I did.

"Sofia," he murmurs, his voice raw. His forehead presses against mine, his hands tightening on my hips. "I don’t—" He cuts himself off, his breath shuddering against my lips.

I don’t know what he was about to say.

I don’t let him finish.

Because I don’t want words.

I don’t want promises.

I just want him.

I reach for him, fisting his shirt, pulling him back to me.

And when I kiss him again, I pour everything into it—every unsaid word, every fear, every shattered hope that we might make it through this.

His control snaps.

He lifts me effortlessly, his hands gripping my thighs, and I wrap my legs around his waist as he carries me through the darkened halls of the estate, never breaking the kiss.

I melt into him, into the way he takes, into the way he gives —as if he already knows this might be our last time.

And when we reach his bedroom, when he kicks the door shut behind us and lowers me onto the bed with a reverence that makes my chest ache?—

I let myself forget everything but this.