Page 33 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

MARCO

M y body drags me out of sleep slowly, like I’m clawing my way up from the bottom of a deep well.

My limbs feel heavy, my head thick with something unnatural.

My tongue is dry, sticking to the roof of my mouth.

There’s a strange taste on it—bitter and metallic.

Out of sheer instinct, I reach blindly for Sofia. My hand finds nothing but cold sheets.

I go still.

A cold prickle moves down my spine as my fingers curl around the empty space where she should be. My mind shakes off the last remnants of sleep, instincts snapping to attention. I sit up too fast, the room tilting at the edges of my vision.

"Sofia?" My voice is hoarse, rough with sleep and something else. Something worse.

No answer.

The air in the bedroom feels stale, like it hasn’t been disturbed in hours. I force my body to move, throwing off the sheets, planting my feet on the floor. The polished hardwood is cool beneath my bare skin. I scan the room, my pulse pounding, my breath sharp.

She’s not here.

The closet door stands slightly ajar. The silk dress she wore last night is still draped over the chair in the corner. But the small bag she always keeps on the dresser—the one she never leaves without—is gone.

My stomach twists.

Something glints in the dim light beside the bed. A small, folded slip of paper.

No.

I already know what it is before I reach for it. Already know it will destroy me before I even open it.

My hands tremble as I unfold the note. The writing is hurried, uneven, like she forced herself to do this quickly before she lost her nerve.

I’m sorry, Marco.

Three fucking words. That’s all.

Everything inside me goes still.

I read it again, my eyes tracing the jagged loops of her handwriting, as if more words might materialize. As if there might be some explanation, some clue, some reason that will make this make sense.

I’m sorry, Marco.

My fingers clench around the paper, the edges crumpling under the pressure. My heart slams against my ribs, and a violent heat surges through my veins, burning away the last remnants of whatever the fuck she gave me.

She drugged me.

The thought comes fast and sharp, cutting through the confusion like a blade. That’s why my head feels like it’s full of sand. That’s why my limbs are slow, why I slept so fucking deeply.

She planned this.

She planned it down to the last goddamn second.

I explode off the bed, the chair crashing to the floor as I move. My body shakes with adrenaline, my pulse hammering as I tear through the room, scanning for anything—any sign of where she went, how long she’s been gone.

The sheets still hold her warmth, but barely.

I shove open the closet doors, fists clenching as I register what’s missing. A single change of clothes. The cash she kept hidden behind the books on the shelf.

A vicious roar builds in my chest, but I choke it down, dragging my hands through my hair, pacing, thinking.

How the fuck did she get past my men?

I grab my phone off the nightstand, but before I can dial, I hear footsteps—fast, urgent—pounding toward my room.

A sharp knock. Then Adriano’s voice. "Boss, we have a problem."

No fucking shit.

I yank the door open so hard it slams against the wall. Adriano barely flinches. His face is grim, tense, confirming what I already know before the words even leave his mouth.

"She’s gone," I say first. My voice is low, dangerous.

Adriano nods. "Security caught movement near the south perimeter about an hour ago. Back gate was open when we checked."

I swear, the sound tearing from my throat sharp and vicious. My hands curl into fists, my jaw clenching so hard I feel the crack of pressure in my skull.

"She had help," I bite out.

No way she did this alone. No way she slipped past the guards, arranged transport, and vanished without someone covering her tracks.

Adriano shifts on his feet. "I have it that someone arranged a car."

Rage sears through me. I force a breath through my teeth. "Where was the car headed?"

"We’re working on that now." Adriano hesitates, then adds, "Do you want me to put out a citywide alert? Lock down the borders?"

I grip the doorway, my body taut with fury, my mind calculating.

"I want every soldier on this, every contact, every informant, every goddamn resource at our disposal." My fingers tighten around the note in my hand, the paper crumbling under my grip. "I want her found. Now."

Adriano nods sharply. "Yes, Boss."

As he moves down the hall, barking orders into his radio, I stand there, breathing hard, my heart a war drum against my ribs.

She thinks she can leave, that she can slip away unnoticed, disappear into the night and carve out a life where I no longer exist, where my name is nothing more than a ghost she forces herself to forget.

But Sofia doesn’t understand, doesn’t see the truth of what we are, of what she’s done to me, how she’s burrowed under my skin and settled there like she belongs, like she was always meant to be a part of me.

She doesn’t know that there is no version of this world where I simply let her go, no reality where I stand back and watch her vanish, pretending it doesn’t tear me apart from the inside out.

She doesn’t know that I will find her.

Not because I have to. Not because it’s about control, or power, or the way the rules of this life demand I keep what’s mine.

No, it’s simpler than that, more inevitable.

It’s the way I breathe, the way my heart beats, the way every part of me pulls toward her like a force I don’t have the strength—or the will—to resist.

Because losing her isn’t an option. Because the idea of her out there, beyond my reach, alone in a world that would swallow her whole the second she lets her guard down, is a kind of pain I can’t afford to feel.

Because I love her in a way that doesn’t break, doesn’t bend, doesn’t allow for the possibility of anything else.

And maybe that’s the real problem. Maybe that’s why, no matter how fast she runs, she will never be fast enough.

I storm out of the bedroom, the note still clenched in my fist. The words blur, a sick mockery of everything I thought we were. I’m sorry, Marco. A fucking apology, as if she hasn’t gutted me, as if she hasn’t just set fire to everything we built and walked away without looking back.

My heartbeat is a distant, echoing thrum, lost in the hush of my own breath as I take the stairs two at a time. Rage coils through me, cold and glacial, wrapping around my ribs like iron bands.

The estate is moving around me, guards stationed at every post, men murmuring in low voices as I pass. I stride into the kitchen, empty except for Luca, who stands near the espresso machine, his posture loose.

His back is to me as he prepares his coffee, the scent unraveling into the air, drifting along the quiet edges of the room. He doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak, but I catch the slight shift of his shoulders—the only sign that he’s already aware of my presence.

I set the mug down harder than necessary, the porcelain meeting the counter with a dull, final sound.

My hands are still unsteady as I pour, but I don’t care.

The bitterness touches my tongue, sharp and unyielding, yet it does nothing to wash away the dryness in my throat, nothing to ease the ache blooming like a bruise beneath my ribs.

Luca finally turns, one brow raised, his lips tilting in something that would be a smirk on anyone else.

"I told you?—"

I shoot him a look so sharp, so deadly, that he cuts himself off mid-sentence.

Luca has never been one to hold back, never been the kind to soften his words for anyone. But right now, with the way I’m looking at him, the way my body burns with unspent rage—he thinks better of it.

His gaze flicks to the crumpled note still in my grip. "So, she really left."

I don’t answer.

The silence stretches before Luca exhales through his nose and leans against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. "You know she didn’t just run blindly," he says, voice even.

I already know this. My hands shake as I grab my phone, dialing a number I’ve known by heart for years. My most trusted men, the ones who know better than to ask stupid questions when I give them an order.

The moment the line picks up, I bark, "Sofia’s gone. I want roadblocks. I want traffic cams pulled. I want every driver who left this estate in the last three hours tracked and questioned."

A beat of silence. Then, "On it, boss."

I hang up and dial the next number. "Check all private airstrips, train stations, the docks. I don’t care how much you have to pay, I want a list of every outgoing transport in the last twelve hours."

Another confirmation. Another moving piece.

I turn to Luca, my muscles coiled so tight it feels like I might snap. "You have eyes in the police department. Make sure they’re not looking for her."

Luca watches me for a moment before nodding once, pulling out his phone. He knows better than to ask why.

Because if the cops find her before I do, if anyone else puts their hands on her before I get to her—I will burn this city to the fucking ground.

The estate is a flurry of movement now. My orders ripple through the ranks like gunfire, men scrambling, voices crackling through radios, engines roaring to life in the courtyard. I should feel better. I should feel like I have control again.

But I don’t.

Because no matter how much power I wield, no matter how many men I send after her—Sofia knows me. She knows my methods, my resources, my reach. And that means she knows exactly how to stay ahead of me.

I drag a hand down my face, inhaling deeply. The rage is still there, a slow, simmering burn beneath my skin. But it’s the fear that’s worse. The fear that’s been gnawing at me from the second I woke up to an empty bed.

Sofia ran—abandoned me. And she never would have done that unless she truly believed she had no other choice. Why?

A sharp knock on the door cuts through my thoughts. One of my men, Rico, steps in, his face pale, his expression unreadable.

"Boss," he says, voice tight. "We found something."

I straighten instantly. "What?"

The man swallows and holds out some papers to me. I frown, snatching them from his hand, my breath hitching as I take a closer look. It takes a second for my brain to catch up, to process what I’m seeing?—

A pregnancy test, done by a clinic.

The result: pregnant.

Everything inside me goes still. A strange, cold silence fills my chest, stretching through my limbs, pressing against my skull.

My mouth is so dry I can’t swallow. My vision tunnels, shrinking down to the documents in my hand, the answer to a question I never thought to ask.

She’d been sick—but she told me that was a case of food poisoning. I should have known better. Damn it, Sofia.