Page 37 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

MARCO

I stand at the edge of the clearing, my jaw locked so tight it aches, my fists clenched at my sides.

The forest is dense, silent except for the faint rustle of wind through the trees, the occasional snap of a branch underfoot as my men move through the underbrush.

The scent of damp earth and pine lingers in the cold air, but beneath it, I swear I can still smell her—Sofia, the faint trace of her perfume, something warm and familiar that sends a sharp pain through my ribs.

She was here. She should still be here.

Instead, there’s nothing. No footprints leading forward, no sign of struggle, no indication of where the fuck she’s gone. Just the trees swallowing the last traces of her like a goddamn illusion.

Panic edges in, slow and insidious.

I shove it down. I can’t afford to panic.

Adriano and Rico fan out beside me, their guns raised, their faces grim. The other men move through the clearing in a tight formation, scanning every inch of the ground, sweeping the area with sharp, methodical movements.

"She’s hurt," I say, my voice tight with strain. "She wouldn’t get far on her own."

Rico nods. "She’s not alone, then."

The words settle in my gut like lead.

If the Lombardis got to her first?—

A low crackle comes through the radio at my belt.

Static, then a voice, urgent. "Movement spotted, seventy yards north. Someone’s there."

The breath leaves my lungs in a slow, controlled exhale.

Sofia.

I don’t hesitate.

I break into a sprint, my boots pounding against the forest floor, branches whipping against my arms as I weave between the trees. The air is thick with dampness, the last remnants of the storm clinging to the underbrush. My lungs burn, my heart a brutal drum in my chest, but I don’t slow.

I can’t slow down.

Ahead, I hear the snap of a branch, then something heavier—a struggle, the unmistakable shuffle of bodies, the scrape of boots against dirt.

Then—

Sofia’s voice. Muffled. Strained.

There is no thought, only the pull of instinct, driving me forward. I break into the clearing, my gun already raised, breath measured, hands steady, my body moving before my mind can catch up.

And then I see a Lombardi enforcer, standing over Sofia, his gun trained on her with the kind of stillness that means he’s already decided how this will end.

She doesn’t move. Neither does he. The space between them is razor-thin, a moment stretched unbearably tight, balanced on the edge of something irreversible.

There’s no room for hesitation, no space for warning. My world narrows to the weight of the gun in my hands, to the way my muscles coil as I lift my arm. There is no sound, no breath, no time left to waste.

I pull the trigger.

The gunshot rends the night apart, a rupture in the quiet, absolute and final.

There is no hesitation, no second chance—only the brutal certainty of impact.

The enforcer jerks, a sharp breath snagging in his throat, his body twisting as if he might outrun fate itself.

Blood spreads across his chest, dark and inevitable, and for a single, suspended moment, he stands there, caught between motion and collapse.

Then his knees give, and he crumples to the ground, the weight of him swallowed by the earth.

Silence presses in, thick as oil.

Then—a gasp, shallow and jagged.

Sofia.

She is sprawled on the cold ground, her breath uneven, wrists bound, her lip cracked where blood beads along the split.

The torn fabric of her dress clings to her shoulder, dirt streaking her cheek like a careless brushstroke.

Yet her eyes, burning with an intensity that makes the night feel too small, find mine and do not waver.

I am already moving. There is no space for thought, no pause between fury and relief, no chance to slow the violent pull dragging me toward her.

I drop to my knees beside her, yanking a knife from my belt and slicing through the bindings around her wrists in one swift motion. The rope falls away, and before she can say a word, I pull her into me.

She stiffens. Just for a second. Then she exhales, her body sagging against mine, her arms slipping around my neck as I bury my face in her hair.

I breathe her in.

For a moment, I don’t care about anything else. Not the blood on my hands, not the bodies around us, not the fact that I was seconds away from losing her.

I close my eyes and hold her tighter.

"You okay?" My voice is rough, scraping against my throat like gravel.

She doesn’t answer at first. Her fingers clutch at my jacket, her breathing uneven, but she doesn’t push me away.

Then—soft, hoarse—"I don’t know."

Something in my chest cracks.

I pull back just enough to cup her face, tilting it up so I can see her clearly. Her skin is cold, her pupils blown wide with adrenaline, but she’s here. Alive.

I run my thumb over the corner of her mouth, tracing the smear of blood at her lip. My jaw tightens. "Did he?—"

"No." She shakes her head quickly. "He was waiting for backup. He didn’t have time to—" Her voice catches, and she swallows hard. "He just wanted to take me."

Take her.

My grip tightens on her, rage and helplessness twisting inside me like barbed wire. The Lombardis wanted her alive. I should be relieved by that fact, but I’m not. If they’d gotten their hands on her, if I had been even a second too late?—

I shove the thought away before it can take root.

"You’re safe now." The words feel inadequate, but they’re all I have.

Sofia exhales a shaky breath, and for the first time since I found her, I see something fracture in her expression. Not defiance. Not anger. Just exhaustion.

Her hands fist in the fabric of my jacket. "Marco…"

I wait.

She looks at me like she wants to say something else, something important, but instead, she just shakes her head. "I didn’t think you’d come this fast."

"You should have known better."

She lets out a weak, humorless laugh. "Yeah. I should have."

I can hear the others approaching now—Enzo, Rico, the rest of my men pushing through the trees, closing in on us. But for these last few seconds, it’s just us.

I brush a strand of hair away from her face, my fingers lingering against her cheek. "Can you stand?"

She nods, but when I help her up, her legs buckle. I catch her before she falls, my arm steady around her waist.

"Just a little dizzy," she mutters.

"Just a little stubborn," I correct.

She glances up at me, and despite everything, the corner of her mouth twitches. "That too."

I hold onto that moment, that sliver of familiarity in all this chaos, and then Rico steps into the clearing, gun raised, eyes sweeping over the scene.

"Boss." He stops when he sees Sofia, relief flashing across his face before his expression hardens again. "You good?"

I don’t look away from her.

"Yeah," I say. "We’re good."

Sofia is in my arms, safe.

Or as safe as she can be after what she’s been through.

She’s still trembling, her body leaning into mine despite the wall of defiance I know she’s trying to rebuild around herself. I feel every inch of her—every shallow breath, every rapid pulse point, every unspoken word hanging between us. But there’s no time to unravel any of it.

I need to get her out of this goddamn forest.

I shift my hold on her, preparing to lift her into my arms, but the radio clipped to Rico’s vest crackles to life.

"Boss, you there?"

It’s another of my men. His voice is brimming with urgency.

I grab the radio before Rico can respond. "Go."

There’s a brief pause, then?—

"We’ve got Mancini."

A slow, burning silence stretches between each syllable.

My spine locks.

Mancini.

The bastard who started all of this. The one who turned my men against me, who worked in the shadows to unravel my command, who sent Sofia running, thinking she could ever escape me.

"Where?" My voice comes quiet, each word measured, but the edges are honed.

"Warehouse off Route Sixteen," the man replies. "We pulled him from a Lombardi safe house. He wasn’t expecting us."

Good.

"Any casualties?"

"None on our side." A beat. Then he clears his throat. "But he was mid-meeting with one of Lombardi’s lieutenants when we got there."

Sofia stiffens against me.

I already know what she’s thinking. Mancini was never working alone.

And if the Lombardis had eyes on him when he was taken, they know we have him now.

I close my eyes briefly, inhaling through my nose. The rage that’s been sitting just beneath my skin, simmering, waiting, now flares into something lethal.

Mancini doesn’t just know things.

He is a loose thread in a war that’s barely begun.

And if I pull the wrong way, everything unravels.

Sofia tilts her head up, searching my face. "Marco?"