Page 39 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

MARCO

T he drive stretches on, a black ribbon unspooling through the skeletal fingers of the forest.

Silence isn't merely absent of sound; it's a tangible thing, a heavy blanket woven from the damp earth and the looming trees. It presses against the windshield, a physical force, and seems to seep into the car, filling the space around me, a cold, clammy hand on my skin.

The rain stopped hours ago, but the roads remain slick, reflecting my headlights in distorted, shimmering pools. They're not roads, really, more like suggestions, faint trails carved through the dense undergrowth.

My headlights, twin spears of pale light, struggle to pierce the oppressive darkness, each turn revealing only another wall of trees, their branches like gnarled, grasping claws. The deeper I drive, the more the feeling grows that I'm not just driving to the cabin, but into something else entirely.

Every rustle of leaves, every snap of a twig under the tires, sounds amplified, pregnant with unseen possibilities.

The silence now throbs with an undercurrent of danger.

I grip the steering wheel tighter, knuckles white, and push deeper into the black.

Rico sits in the passenger seat, his gun resting on his thigh, his fingers drumming against the grip in a slow, steady rhythm.

Behind us, a second car follows, carrying two more of my men. I don’t need an army for this.

Mancini isn’t worth that kind of effort.

What he is worth is my time. My undivided fucking attention.

The forest stretches endlessly around us, a suffocating expanse of towering trees and thick underbrush. It’s the kind of place where the world forgets you exist. Where men disappear without a trace.

Fitting.

I keep my grip tight on the wheel, my knuckles white as I force my breathing to stay even. My anger has settled into something colder now, something sharper. I don’t need rage for this. I need clarity.

And I need Mancini to understand exactly what happens to men who betray me.

The cabin emerges from the darkness like a forgotten relic—small, unassuming, built decades ago for men who used to hunt animals, not traitors. It’s been used by the Salvatore family for years, not for leisure, but for business. The kind of business that doesn’t leave loose ends.

I pull the car to a stop a few yards away, cutting the engine. The other vehicle does the same, the headlights clicking off one by one until we’re swallowed by the night.

No one speaks.

I step out, the cold biting through my shirt, but I don’t feel it. The door to the cabin is slightly ajar, the glow of a single hanging bulb seeping through the crack. Someone is waiting inside.

Enzo, the family hitman, stands at the entrance, his expression unreadable. He gives me a small nod, then moves aside. No words are needed. I already know what’s waiting for me beyond that door.

I walk in.

The scent of sweat, blood, and damp wood hits me first.

The place hasn’t changed in years. The walls are bare, stripped of anything that might make it feel like a place meant for living.

A fireplace sits unused in the corner, its stone blackened with old soot.

The floor creaks under my boots as I step inside, my shadow stretching across the wooden panels.

And in the center of it all—Mancini.

He’s tied to a chair, his wrists bound behind him, his ankles secured to the legs. Blood stains his collar, trailing from a fresh cut along his temple. His suit is wrinkled, his tie loosened, but his posture is upright. He lifts his head slowly, one swollen eye struggling to open, and looks at me.

The man who once stood at my side, who swore loyalty to this family, now looks like a caged animal.

Fear and defiance war in his gaze.

I take another step forward.

Mancini’s mouth twitches, bloodied lips curling at the edges. And then, despite everything—despite the position he’s in, despite the fact that I could end him in the next breath—he smiles.

The silence holds, unmoving, pressing in from all sides. Across the room, the clock ticks, each sound carving into the stillness, marking the seconds with an unnerving steadiness.

Mancini shifts in his restraints. He’s putting on a show, trying to mask the fact that he’s already lost. But I know the look in his eyes. He’s calculating, running through his last plays, trying to see if there’s any way out of this.

There isn’t.

I pull a chair from the corner, dragging it across the floor, the legs scraping against the wood like a blade against bone. I lower myself onto it, facing him, elbows resting on my knees, my hands clasped together as I study him.

"Let’s not waste time." I go straight to the point. "We both know how this ends. But how much it hurts before then—that’s up to you."

Mancini swallows, his throat bobbing, but he lifts his chin. "You think you can scare me, Marco?" His voice is hoarse, but there’s still arrogance there. "I’ve known you since you were a kid. I made you."

I let out a quiet breath, nodding slowly. "That’s the problem, Antonio. You think you made me. But if that were true, you would have seen this coming."

I glance at Rico, who steps forward and presses his boot against Mancini’s knee, forcing a sharp grunt from his throat. Mancini jerks in his chair, but the bindings keep him locked in place.

"Start talking," I say, my tone cutting through the room like steel. "Why did you betray the family? What did the Lombardis promise you?"

Mancini exhales, then gives me a smirk, blood pooling in the corner of his mouth. "What does it matter? You already have me tied up like a fucking animal."

I lean forward, my fingers brushing against the pistol at my hip. "It matters," I say, drawing out each word. "Because I need to know how deep this goes. Who else was in on it? How long have you been working against me?"

Mancini doesn’t answer. He just watches me, measuring, waiting.

Rico clicks his tongue, then moves behind him, gripping a fistful of his hair and yanking his head back. Mancini grits his teeth as he presses the cold barrel of his gun against his temple.

"You don’t want to answer?" Rico mutters. "That’s fine. I’ve got all night."

For a moment, I think Mancini is going to hold out, let his pride get him killed. But then I see it—the slightest flicker of doubt in his eyes. The realization that he isn’t leaving this cabin alive.

I try again. "You wanted my seat, Antonio. You thought you could turn the family against me. So, tell me—how exactly did you plan to do that?"

His nostrils flare. His gaze darts between me and Rico, then back to me.

And finally, he sighs, long and slow.

"You always thought you were untouchable," he mutters, his voice raw with resentment. "But the men—they’re not as loyal as you think. They’ve been waiting, Marco. Waiting for a leader who isn’t just Luca’s puppet."

Something dark slithers through my chest, but I don’t let it show.

"Go on," I say.

Mancini shifts again, then lets out a dry, humorless laugh.

"The Lombardis saw what I saw. A kingdom built on fear, not loyalty. A leader who only holds power because of his last name." His lip curls. "You think these men want to follow you? They do it because they have to. But me? I gave them an option. A future where they wouldn’t have to walk on eggshells around you. Where they wouldn’t have to live under Luca’s fucking shadow. "

My fingers tighten around the arms of my chair, but I don’t interrupt.

"I spent years feeding them information," he continues, his voice rising.

"Every move you made, every deal you struck, every weak point in your security.

The Lombardis were going to back me, Marco.

They were going to help me take the family.

And when you were finally out of the way, I was going to build something stronger. Better."

His words sink into me like a slow poison.

It wasn’t just ambition. It wasn’t just greed. Mancini genuinely thought he could erase the Salvatores. That he could sit in my chair, wear my crown, lead my men.

And worse—he thought he was entitled to it.

I nod, taking in everything he’s just said. "So, you planned to let the Lombardis waltz in and take their cut? You really think they would have let you sit on the throne? That they wouldn’t have gutted you the second you outlived your use?"

Mancini snorts. "I had insurance."

I arch a brow. "What insurance?"

For the first time, hesitation flickers in his expression. But it’s too late. I already see the answer forming in his mind.

I tilt my head, my tone dropping to something lethal. "What insurance?"

Mancini licks his split lip, then mutters, "Sofia."

The air in the room turns razor-sharp.

Rico swears under his breath. I go utterly still.

"Sofia," I repeat, my voice eerily quiet.

Mancini lets out a short, bitter laugh. "She was leverage.

They knew you were too obsessed with her to think straight.

If it ever came down to it, she would have been the bargaining chip.

" His gaze flicks to me, his smirk returning despite the bruises staining his face. "Guess I should’ve acted sooner, huh?"

I stand so fast the chair tips over.

Before Mancini can react, I grab his collar, yanking him forward. His breath stutters, his body tensing against the restraints.

"You think you could’ve used her against me?" My voice is venomous. "You think I’d ever let that happen?"

Mancini’s smile doesn’t waver. If anything, it deepens, his eyes glinting with something almost victorious.

"Doesn’t matter," he murmurs. "Because it’s already started."

Mancini’s laughter grates against my skin like a dull blade.

I tighten my grip on his collar, my fingers digging into the torn fabric of his shirt.

He’s already lost, and he knows it—knows it in the way his breaths come shallow and uneven, knows it in the way his body sags against the chair, his strength dwindling with each passing second.

But that smirk, that fucking smirk, stays plastered across his bruised face like he still has something to hold over me.

And then he says it.

"You really think this is over?" His voice is a low rasp, thick with blood and amusement. "You think killing me will stop what’s coming?"

I yank him forward, our faces inches apart. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

His head tilts, his expression twisted with something close to glee. "The Lombardis aren’t stupid, Marco. You should know that by now. Did you really think they didn’t have a backup plan? A trump card?"

A slow, cold dread spreads through my chest.

He’s bluffing. He has to be.

But then I see it—the flicker of satisfaction in his eyes. He’s savoring this. Dragging it out. Making me wait .

I pull back slightly, my jaw tight. "If you had a card to play, you would’ve used it already."

Mancini chuckles, a wet, broken sound. "Timing is everything." He lifts his head, meeting my gaze with something dark, something that makes my stomach tighten with unease. "And I’d say the time is just about right."

I press the barrel of my gun to his temple, letting the cold metal kiss his sweat-damp skin. "What. Card."

He just grins.

My finger twitches over the trigger. I could end this now. Wipe that smug look off his face. Make sure he never speaks another word.

But that’s exactly what he wants.

I exhale sharply, reining in my fury. "Who do the Lombardis have?"

Mancini licks his split lip, shaking his head slightly. "It’s too late." His voice is barely a whisper now, his amusement faltering under the weight of his own impending death. "Even if I told you, you wouldn’t get to them in time."

Rage coils in my gut, threatening to explode. "Tell me."

His silence is deafening.

I shove him back against the chair, stepping away, pacing. My mind races, running through every possibility, every person who could be a target. Sofia is safe—for now. My men are protecting her. But if the Lombardis have someone, someone important , then this war isn’t just about power anymore.

It’s personal.

Mancini shifts in his seat, exhaling through his nose like he’s resigned to his fate. "You’ve already lost, Marco," he murmurs.

That's it. I've wasted enough time here.

I lift my gun.

And pull the trigger.

The gunshot cracks through the cabin, deafening in the silence.

Mancini’s body jerks, then slumps forward, his head lolling to the side. Blood seeps into his already stained shirt, the scent of gunpowder mingling with the damp wood of the walls.

I watch him for a moment, waiting.

Waiting for him to spit out one last threat, one final taunt.

But there’s nothing.

Only silence.