Page 3 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

SOFIA

Five Years Ago

A fter an hour of relentless thinking, the only thing I do is make a phone call. Another hour later, that phone call results in Detective Enrico Marino standing in my kitchen, arms crossed, his jaw locked so tight I half expect his teeth to crack under the pressure.

The cozy kitchen light does little to soften the exhaustion carved into his face, but it does make his badge gleam every time he moves, not unlike a smug little spectator to my rebellion.

It perches at his hip, a shining emblem of law and order, while I sit here, the living embodiment of bad decisions and selective rule-breaking.

I’m pacing, my bare feet soundless against the cool wooden floor. My mind is a live wire, sparking with adrenaline, defiance, and the bitter taste of the truth.

"This is insane, Sofia." Marino’s face pales visibly as he rubs a hand down the length of it. He looks bone-tired, but I don’t care. "You have to drop this story. You don’t get it—they’re done warning you."

I snort in response as I plant my palms on my hips. "Oh, I get it just fine. The Lombardis think they can scare me into silence." I spin to face him, crossing my arms over my chest. "Tell me, Marino, how many bodies have they buried because people like me did stay silent?"

"This isn’t about right and wrong anymore. It’s about survival." His voice dips lower, raw with an emotion that sounds almost like pleading. "You don’t know these men the way I do. You have no idea what they’re capable of."

I step closer, the distance between us shrinking to inches. "And you don’t know me."

My voice has become shrill, maybe because I’m passionate, maybe because I can’t take everyone telling me what I need to do any longer.

"I’ve worked too hard, dug too deep to back down now.

This story isn’t just about the Lombardis, it’s about the city, about the people they’ve crushed beneath their boot. If I don’t tell it, who will?"

Marino curses under his breath and turns away, his hands bracing against the counter. The tension in his shoulders is practically alive, coiled tight like a beast on the verge of snapping. It drags at him, an invisible yoke of duty, regret, or maybe just the burden of dealing with me.

For a long moment, he says nothing. He just stares at the cracked tiles beneath his fingers.

Then, finally, defeat.

"Fine." He sighs drearily, the word laced with resignation. "I can’t stop you. But if you’re hell-bent on signing your own death warrant, I’m not letting you do it alone." He turns back to me, his expression hard, resolved. "I’ll help. As much as I can."

Something in my chest eases, just slightly. I won’t thank him—not when this is as much his fight as mine—but I nod. "Good."

Marino shakes his head like he can’t believe what he’s gotten himself into. "For the record," he mutters, pulling his jacket from the chair, "this is the dumbest thing you’ve ever done."

I smirk. "Then you haven’t been paying attention."

He grumbles something I don’t catch and heads for the door. I watch him go, listening for the soft click of the lock as it slides into place.

And then I sigh.

The moment of stillness lasts only a breath before the weight of the night crashes back down on me. My eyes flick to the clock. Shit. I don’t have time for this, not when I have to get ready.

I have to attend the Salvatore’s Gala. Valentina will expect me to show up.

My stomach knots at the thought, a tangled mess of irritation, determination, and something else that creeps all the way down my spine and settles between my legs. Damn it. Damn all the Salvatores but especially Marco. I march toward my bedroom, flipping the light switch on as I go.

The dress hangs on the back of my closet door, shimmering in the glow of my bedside lamp—a deep crimson, silk that pools like spilled wine. It’s bold. Reckless. A color that demands to be seen.

Perfect.

Because if I’m walking into a den of criminals tonight, I’m not going quietly.

I yank open my dresser, rummaging through tangled jewelry and half-forgotten keepsakes until I find what I’m looking for—a delicate chain with a small gold pendant. It belonged to my mother, and I fasten it around my neck with steady fingers.

As I sit at my vanity, smoothing my hair into an elegant updo, my mind drifts to Luca Salvatore and his infuriatingly handsome, insufferably arrogant brother, Marco.

The memory of our last encounter burns like whiskey down my throat.

They had barged into my apartment— my apartment—flanked by their suited shadows, looking for all the world like kings descending from their thrones.

Luca had been his usual brooding, self-important self, but it was Marco who had gotten under my skin.

He had leaned against my kitchen counter, arms crossed, a self-important smirk playing at the corners of his lips as he watched me with those impossibly dark eyes.

I had hated how he looked at me like he saw straight through my defiance, straight through my walls, as if he knew exactly how to unravel me.

I had wanted to slap him. Or kiss him.

Which only made me more furious.

The way they had spoken about my best friend Valentina—like she was some pawn in their endless game—had made my blood boil.

Luca had strong-armed Valentina into marriage, using her father’s debts, racked up from a lifetime of drowning in liquor, as leverage.

But somewhere along the way, he’d grown to care for her. If you could call the possessive fire burning in his eyes caring.

What he was doing—constantly second-guessing her, tightening his grip—would only push her further away. And yet, like most men drunk on their own arrogance, he couldn’t see that. I had told him, plainly, that if he wanted to keep her, he had to respect her.

But Luca was an asshole. As most men are.

So, naturally, I didn’t expect him to listen. If he did…good for them. If he didn’t, I’d find a way to help Valentina out of this mess.

But that also meant I needed to be there when she’d need me. And she needs me tonight.

So, here I am, about to step into their world, wearing their colors, drinking their champagne, and smiling at their associates as if I belong.

I give myself one last once-over in the mirror, taking in the woman staring back at me.

I smile because I look untouchable, dangerous.

Because if nothing else, I’m going to make damn sure that Luca and Marco Salvatore regret ever telling me to stay out of their business. Reaching for my clutch, I curl my fingers around the smooth leather.

I’m going to attend the gala and have a good time. If anything, I could get some valuable information on the Lombardis and also how the crime families of Nuova Speranza work.

Luca Salvatore and his insufferable, egotistic brother can go to hell.

I have no intention of leaving Valentina alone, no matter how many times they storm into my home like they own the ground I stand on. And I certainly won’t let them dictate where I go or who I speak to. If anything, tonight is an opportunity—one I refuse to waste.

By the time I reach the Salvatore estate, the gala is already a living, breathing thing—laughter and clinking glasses spilling from its heart like a spell cast over the night.

The estate itself looms ahead, a temple to excess, its limestone facade bathed in the decadent glow of chandeliers spilling light through soaring arched windows.

Beyond the grand entrance, the grounds stretch like a dream woven from wealth, where moonlight kisses perfectly sculpted hedges, and fountains murmur in liquid sighs.

The scent of night-blooming jasmine coils through the air, clinging like whispered promises.

A procession of sleek black cars lines the winding driveway, their polished surfaces catching the estate’s golden light—silent, gleaming totems of the power gathered within.

Stepping through the carved wooden doors, I am greeted by the scent of aged whiskey and polished mahogany.

Stings of soft conversation unfurl like a well-rehearsed symphony, seamlessly interwoven with the crystalline chime of champagne flutes and the languid strains of a string quartet nestled in the far corner of the ballroom.

Men in bespoke suits, their laughter thick and indulgent and impossibly grating, hold court over glasses of bourbon, while women draped in designer gowns smile with perfect poise, their diamonds catching the candlelight like tiny, lethal weapons.

The power in the room is tangible, a force that curls around my skin like a velvet noose.

These are the architects of Nuova Speranza’s underbelly—the men who dictate the rules of the city from behind closed doors, laundering their sins beneath layers of tailored silk and carefully practiced charm.

I don’t belong in their world.

And yet, I move through it with ease, my smile confident and knowing as I exchange pleasantries with men who feign ignorance of just how much blood stains the fortunes they flaunt.

Influential politicians weave through the crowd, their laughter curated, their words careful.

Congressman Mark Ellison lingers by the cigar cart, all silver hair and self-importance, pretending not to notice the envelope slipped into his pocket.

Councilwoman Renee Caldwell chats with a hedge fund exec’s wife, her smile polished, her voting record for sale to the highest bidder.

District Attorney Alan Pierce sips bourbon like it’s communion, his eyes always moving, calculating which of tonight’s hosts will need protecting next.

They don’t represent the city. They manage it for the men who already own it.

Deals are being made tonight, alliances forged over expensive whiskey and plates of food so light and delicate they barely take up room in the stomach.

I’m not naive enough to believe I can change any of it in a single evening, but information is power, and I’m here to collect as much of it as I can.

And then, I see Marco Salvatore.