Page 31 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

SOFIA

T he phone call comes in right at eight in the morning.

I lie still, staring at the ceiling as the soft buzz vibrates against the nightstand.

My pulse pounds, a deep, insistent drumbeat in my ears.

I already know what they’re going to say.

I’ve known since the moment my body started betraying me—since the nausea crept in, since exhaustion started sinking into my bones like lead.

Still, hearing it aloud makes it real in a way I’m not ready for.

I force my voice to stay steady as I answer.

"Miss De Luca?" The voice on the other end is calm, clinical, completely unaware that their next words will splinter my world apart. "The results are in."

I close my eyes.

I grip the sheet beneath me, anchoring myself as I wait.

"You’re in the early stages of pregnancy."

Everything slows. My heartbeat, the air in my lungs, the light spilling through the curtains. A strange, cold weight settles in my chest, numbing everything but the single, undeniable truth.

I am pregnant.

I thank the doctor in a voice that doesn’t sound like mine, and when I end the call, I lay there, unmoving, staring at the cracks in the ceiling like they hold the answers to the storm in my head.

This changes everything.

I press a trembling hand to my stomach, but there’s nothing to feel, no sign of the life growing inside me. There’s no proof except the quiet knowledge that has been in my bones for weeks now.

I don’t know how long I stay there before I hear the familiar sound of footsteps outside my door—firm, measured, unmistakably Marco’s. A wave of nausea rises up, but I push it down, steadying my breath. I can’t let him see me like this.

I force myself up, dragging my body out of bed, moving toward the bathroom with sluggish, heavy limbs. The world tilts slightly as I reach the sink. My hands tremble as I splash cold water on my face, forcing my expression into something neutral, something he won’t question.

When I step out, Marco is standing by the door, watching me with sharp, assessing eyes.

"You look pale." His voice is gruff, laced with suspicion. "Are you still sick?"

I nod, forcing a weak smile. "The food poisoning was worse than I thought," I murmur. "I just need to rest."

His gaze narrows. He doesn’t believe me.

He moves closer, the space between us shrinking, pressing in. His fingers graze beneath my chin, tilting my face up with a touch too light to match the weight of him in the room.

"Sofia."

My name leaves his lips quieter now, edged with a quiet intensity that settles where it shouldn’t. It winds through me, tightening in my chest.

"You’d tell me if anything was wrong, wouldn’t you?"

My throat locks.

No.

But I nod anyway. "Of course."

He watches, waiting, measuring. The moment drags, stretching thin before he exhales through his nose.

"Fine. Rest."

The softness vanishes like it was never there. His voice turns clipped, removed. "I have business to take care of today."

Then, just as quickly, he’s gone.

I nod again, waiting for him to leave, waiting for the moment I can finally breathe.

The second the door clicks shut behind him, I press my hands to my face, inhaling deeply.

I have to go.

I know it now, with a certainty that settles in my bones like a slow-moving storm, creeping in at the edges, impossible to ignore. Staying here isn’t just reckless—it’s a death sentence. Not for me.

For my child.

Because this world does not forgive softness.

It does not protect the fragile or spare the innocent.

It waits in the quiet spaces, in the shadows of power, in the mouths of men who speak in low, measured tones, their words edged with unspoken threats.

A child—his child—would not be a blessing.

It would be a weapon. A vulnerability. A countdown to disaster.

I can already feel it, the shift that would come, the careful glances, the murmured speculations, the weight of unseen eyes tracking my every move.

The way doors would close just a second too late, the way conversations would pause when I entered the room.

A threat wouldn’t come loud, not at first. It would come in silence.

In the space between words. In the creeping inevitability of what I already know to be true.

If I stay, I will lose this child—whether to a bullet, a blade, or the slow, insidious pull of a world that never lets go.

So, I start planning.

I spend the day withdrawing into myself, letting the distance settle between Marco and me like a growing chasm. He notices. Of course he does.

By evening, the tension is thick, crackling between us like a live wire.

"Are you going to tell me what the fuck is wrong with you?" His voice is sharp, cutting through the heavy silence of our bedroom.

I don’t answer.

His jaw clenches. "I won’t play this game, Sofia."

"Then don’t," I snap back, my own temper flaring. "You’re always so sure of yourself, Marco. You always think you know everything. So, tell me—what am I thinking right now?"

A muscle jumps in his jaw.

I turn away before he can answer, before I say something I can’t take back.

The fight lingers in the air long after I climb into bed, long after he settles on the sofa across the room, refusing to join me.

He doesn’t trust me.

And he shouldn’t.

Before the sun rises, I wake him with my hands, my mouth, my body.

I kiss him slow, teasing, coaxing. I taste the salt of his skin, the heat of his exhaustion, the bitterness of the distance between us. He groans into my mouth, gripping my hips, pulling me against him with a hunger that should terrify me but doesn’t.

Because I know what comes next.

I feed him strawberries from my fingers, watch as his mouth wraps around them, his lips stained red from the juice. I pour him a glass of wine, smiling as he drinks, knowing it won’t take long before the pill I slipped into it takes effect.

By the time I straddle him, by the time he’s growling my name into my throat, his grip less demanding, his movements slower, I know it’s working.

His breathing grows heavy. His body relaxes beneath mine.

And when I finally let him drift into sleep, pressing one last kiss to his temple, I force myself not to cry. It takes me a long, long time to tear myself away from him.

I have to do this.

The longer I wait, the more impossible this becomes. Hesitation is a noose tightening around my throat, and if I don’t move now, I never will.

Carefully, I peel back the sheets and slip out of bed, keeping each movement slow, measured.

The room is steeped in shadows, quiet except for the steady rhythm of his breath.

I crouch near the dresser, reaching for the small stash I’ve hidden away—a bundle of cash, a burner phone, a change of clothes.

Essentials. Not enough, but all I can take without raising suspicion.

At the doorway, I stop. Just for a second. Just long enough to let my eyes trace over him one last time.

Marco lies sprawled across the bed, the sharpness of him softened in sleep, the weight he carries stripped away for these few stolen hours. He looks almost peaceful. Almost like the man I used to believe he could be.

My teeth sink into my lip as my hand drifts to my stomach, pressing lightly, grounding myself in the choice I’ve already made.

I had arranged the car two nights ago, knowing Valentina would help. Marco had been beside me then, lost in sleep, his fingers curled over my hip like even in his dreams he knew what I was up to.

I stared at my phone for what felt like an eternity before I finally typed out the message.

I need a favor. A car, Thursday morning, sharp at five. No questions.

The reply came faster than I expected.

I’ll handle it. Just tell me where you need to go.

The air is too warm despite the early morning chill seeping through the windows.

The remnants of last night still linger—crumpled sheets, the faint scent of wine and sex, the feel of his hands on my skin.

I force myself to push it away, to ignore the way my body aches from the way he touched me, from the way I memorized him in the dark.

I have to focus.

I move carefully, my fingers shaking as I reach for the small scrap of paper I found in his desk. I should say more. I should explain. But there’s no way to make him understand why I have to do this.

I press the pen to the page.

I’m sorry, Marco.

Three words. The only ones that matter. The only ones that will gut him.

I fold the note once, setting it on the bedside table where I know he’ll see it the second he wakes up. Once I’m ready, I take one last look at him.

Marco sleeps like he does everything else—deeply, intensely, like he’s never known how to do things halfway. His dark hair is mussed against the pillow, his breathing slow and steady. He looks younger like this, his sharp edges softened in sleep, but I know better than to be fooled.

I slip out of the room, easing the door shut behind me.

The hallway is dark, the sconces casting low golden light against the marble floors. My heartbeat echoes in my ears, a frantic rhythm that matches the sound of my bare feet against the cold stone. Every shadow feels like a threat, every distant noise like a warning.

I grip the small bag slung over my shoulder tighter. I packed light—just a change of clothes, some cash I’d secretly stashed away over the past few days, and the bare essentials. Anything more would slow me down.

The estate is massive, a labyrinth of corridors and staircases, but I know the path I need to take. I spent the entire night mapping it out in my head while Marco slept beside me, tracing invisible routes against his skin, committing every turn and blind spot to memory.

I reach the grand staircase and pause, pressing myself against the wall.

Two guards stand near the entrance, talking in hushed voices. Not patrolling, but alert enough that I can’t risk walking straight through the main doors. My stomach twists.

Think.