Page 38 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

SOFIA

T he forest is alive around us, the wind threading through the trees in hushed whispers, the scent of damp earth and pine clinging to the cold night air.

The distant sound of Marco’s men searching through the underbrush barely reaches me, drowned out by the pounding of my heart, the lingering tremor in my limbs.

I press closer to Marco without thinking, the warmth of his body the only thing tethering me to reality. He doesn’t loosen his hold, his grip firm as he steadies me against him, his breath warm against my hair.

I should be afraid—I am afraid.

Not just of what almost happened, of the hands that had yanked me into the dirt, of the gun barrel that had hovered inches from my face. No, that fear has already settled deep inside me, coiling tight around my ribs like something that will never fully let go.

What terrifies me more is how much I need him right now.

I was prepared to run. To disappear. To carve out a life for myself and the baby away from this world, away from Marco and the violence that trails him like a shadow. I thought I could do it alone.

But I see the truth now.

Without Marco, I’m vulnerable.

Without Marco, I don’t stand a chance.

He’s not just the reason I ran—he’s the only reason I’m still alive.

"Can you walk?" His voice is soft, raw in its ache for me.

My heart just jumps.

I nod, though my legs tremble, my body betraying me. He doesn’t believe me—not fully. His arm tightens around my waist, solid and unyielding, keeping me from falling.

As we move through the clearing, I steal a glance at him.

Moonlight grazes his face, casting shadows along his jaw, catching in his eyes, which stay fixed ahead.

He doesn’t look at me, doesn’t say a word, but I feel him—every breath, every step, every careful adjustment of his hold.

He could let go. He doesn’t. And I don’t want him to.

A car is waiting at the tree line, its headlights cutting through the darkness in hazy beams. As we approach, one of his men pulls open the back door. Marco stops just before we reach it, reaching for something inside the car. A second later, he drapes a thick blanket over my shoulders.

The soft weight of it startles me more than it should.

I swallow against the tightness in my throat. "Thank you."

He doesn’t respond right away. His fingers linger at the edge of the blanket for a beat too long, then he exhales and helps me inside. The leather seat is cool against my skin, the warmth of the inside barely cutting through the lingering chill clinging to my body.

Marco slides in beside me, shutting the door behind him.

For a moment, neither of us speaks. The silence is stretched taut between us. The engine hums softly as the driver waits for Marco’s command. Outside, the forest looms, dark and endless.

Marco runs a hand down his face, the first real sign that he isn’t as unaffected as he wants me to believe. His other hand, though, is curled into a fist against his thigh. A slow breath leaves him.

Then he looks at me.

"We have Mancini," he says.

He's repeating this to himself.

"I know." I fidget with the ends of the blanket. "How did you find him?"

Marco’s gaze lingers on my mouth. "My men pulled him from a Lombardi safe house. He was meeting with one of their lieutenants when we got to him."

A slow chill creeps down my spine.

I know what this means for Mancini. He was the man who had the nerve to challenge Marco. The one who had been planting seeds of doubt, feeding the discontent that had been growing within the Salvatore ranks. The man Marco had nearly executed in cold blood back at the estate before I stopped him.

And now, Marco has him again.

I can see it in his face—that cold, lethal determination settling into place. The storm gathering behind his eyes.

He’s already decided how this ends.

I shift beneath the blanket, suddenly restless. "Marco?—"

"I won’t let them get to you again." His voice is quiet, but there’s nothing soft about it. "I won’t let them touch you, won’t let them use you against me."

I know what he means.

Mancini is a liability.

And liabilities don’t get to live.

The old Sofia would argue, tell him that there’s another way, that vengeance doesn’t always have to be his first solution. But my throat closes around the words. Because the truth is—I understand.

I understand why Marco has to do this.

The car hums softly beneath me, the scent of leather and faint traces of cologne wrapping around me like a second skin. My fingers curl into the thick blanket draped over my shoulders, the weight of it grounding me, though it does little to stop the trembling still clinging to my limbs.

Marco sits beside me, one elbow braced on his knee, fingers pressed against his temple like he’s willing himself to focus. But he’s not looking at me. Not looking at anything, really. His jaw is locked, his muscles tense beneath his shirt, his entire stiff with restraint.

He’s debating whether to leave.

I can see the conflict behind his eyes, the war between his need to make sure I’m safe and the obligation waiting for him at that warehouse. Marco doesn’t hesitate when it comes to vengeance. When it comes to settling debts, to sending a message.

But right now, he is hesitating.

Because of me, because I’m sitting beside him, bruised and shaken, wrapped in his goddamn blanket, and he doesn’t know if he should go.

I reach out before I can overthink it, placing my hand on his arm.

His muscles are rigid beneath my fingers, the heat of his skin radiating through the fabric of his shirt.

He turns his head slightly, just enough for our eyes to meet.

"Go," I say softly.

He stares at me, searching my face, like he’s waiting for something—hesitation, doubt, fear.

But I’m not afraid.

Not of him.

I squeeze his arm gently. "Do what you have to do. I’ll be okay."

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His fingers flex against his knee. For a second, I think he’s going to argue, that he’ll insist on taking me somewhere safer first, on making sure I’m under lock and key before he handles Mancini.

But then something in him shifts.

His shoulders ease—just slightly. His expression doesn’t soften, but the storm in his eyes dims just enough for me to see something else beneath it.

My chest aches because I know what is, and feel it acutely for him, too.

He exhales slowly, then reaches for something near his feet. A second later, he presses a flask into my hands.

I blink at it, momentarily thrown. It’s warm, the heat seeping through the metal.

"Drink." His voice is quiet, but firm.

I unscrew the cap hesitantly, and the scent of chamomile drifts up, tinged with honey and something richer, spiced. It’s not just tea—it’s the kind of thing you drink when your body is weak, when your bones ache, when the world has been too much.

He thought ahead.

Even in the middle of chaos, in the middle of hunting down a man who betrayed him, in the middle of this , he thought about me.

I take a slow sip, letting the warmth settle deep in my chest.

Marco watches me, his gaze unreadable.

I clear my throat, gripping the flask tighter. "You knew I’d be cold."

"You’re always cold," he mutters.

A small, startled laugh escapes me. It shouldn’t. Not after everything that’s happened tonight. But the corner of Marco’s mouth twitches, just for a fraction of a second, and the space between us shifts into something absurdly close to normalcy.

I look away first, fixing my eyes on the dark blur of trees beyond the car window. The heat from the tea lingers, pooling in my stomach, quieting the tremor still lingering in my limbs.

Marco reaches for the door handle, and instinct kicks in—I want to grab his sleeve, want to keep him here just a little longer. But I don’t.

Instead, I grip the flask and say, "Be careful."

He pauses, then nods once as he steps out of the car. Just outside, he hesitates once more, his body half-turned toward the tree line, but his attention is still on me. I can feel it in the way his stance tightens, the way his fingers flex at his sides like he’s debating staying.

But he can’t.

He has unfinished business with Mancini, and we both know it.

"Sofia," he murmurs. "Let my men take you home."

Home.

Once, I would have balked at the idea, reminded him that his estate was his home, not mine. That I didn’t belong in his world.

But I know better now.

The Lombardis will never stop hunting me. I’m carrying Marco’s child. And no matter how much I thought I could outrun this life, the truth is clear—I don’t want to.

I nod. "Okay."

Something flickers in his eyes. Not relief, not victory—something else. Something unreadable.

He nods once before turning to Lorenzo, the driver. "Get her back to the estate." His voice is all command now, sharp and certain. "I want updates every fifteen minutes."

"Yes, boss."

I feel Marco’s gaze on me again, searching, like he’s memorizing me before he goes. Then he exhales, steps back, and turns away, disappearing into the dark.

I sit there, watching as he vanishes into the trees. The wind picks up, rustling the leaves, whispering something I can’t quite hear. Once he’s gone, we make for the estate.

The SUV rumbles to life, its headlights slicing through the thick darkness of the forest. I sink into the backseat, wrapping the blanket tighter around my shoulders as the men settle into their positions—two in the front, two flanking me on either side. I know what Marco would say if I protested.

This is for your safety. For the baby’s safety.

And, overnight, I’d have to say I feel the same way.

The vehicle rolls forward, the tires crunching over earth and scattered twigs as we wind down the dirt road.

The forest looms around us, dense and restless, as if it knows the night isn’t finished with us yet.

My hands tighten around the flask, the tea inside still warm, though the heat doesn’t quite reach the cold settling deep in my bones.

None of us speak.

Adriano drives with agility, his eyes flicking to the mirrors every few seconds. Another one of Marco’s men sits in the passenger seat, scanning the road ahead, his fingers resting near the gun strapped to his chest. The other two men sit rigid beside me, their bodies tense, ready.

Ready for what?

I close my eyes for a second, trying to slow my breathing. The car is warm, the air inside thick with the faint scent of leather and gunpowder, but my nerves won’t settle. Every mile we put between ourselves and that forest should bring relief. It doesn’t.

Not with Marco still out there.

My eyes flick to the window, watching the trees blur past, their branches clawing at the night sky.

Will he come home to me?

The question lingers in my mind, unspoken but consuming.

He went after Mancini, and I know what that means. Marco doesn’t leave loose ends. He doesn’t let betrayal go unpunished. But this isn’t just about Mancini anymore—it’s about everything that comes next.

What will we do after this?

I exhale slowly, pressing a hand against my stomach, feeling the faintest flutter beneath my fingertips. Marco’s world is violent, dangerous, but right now, it’s the safest place I can be. And when this is all over—when the blood has dried, and the debts have been paid—where do we go from there?

I don’t have the answer to that just yet.