Page 4 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

He stands near the open terrace doors, the city lights like a million fireflies behind him, but it’s him that steals the air from the room.

He’s a presence so potent he doesn’t need to demand attention—he commands it effortlessly.

His black tux is sinfully tailored, molded to broad shoulders and a powerful chest, the fine fabric doing nothing to hide the way strength coils beneath it.

The open collar of his crisp white shirt exposes just enough bronzed skin to make my mouth dry and my thoughts unholy, the hollow of his throat daring me to imagine my lips there.

His dark hair is messy in the way that only men like him can pull off, just unruly enough to look like someone has run their fingers through it, though I know better.

Marco Salvatore is never careless. Even the hint of stubble shadowing the sharp cut of his jaw is a choice, a calculated balance between polish and raw masculinity. And gods, does it work.

Then he looks at me.

Everything tightens.

His eyes are pure, liquid heat—dark and sharp, devouring me without moving a muscle. The barest hint of a smirk tugs at his lips, a silent promise of every wicked thing he could do, every unspoken challenge he knows I won’t be able to resist.

He knows exactly what he’s doing to me.

The very space between us throbs with a pull I feel in my bones, in my blood, in the way my pulse kicks hard and low.

He stands there like he was sculpted by gods who knew too well what temptation looked like, a man built for pleasure and ruin alike.

Marco Salvatore doesn’t just make women reckless.

He makes them beg to be undone.

I, for one, don’t want that to be too obvious.

He inclines his head slightly, and for a moment, I consider looking away. But I don’t.

Instead, I hold his stare, lift my chin, and let the corners of my lips curl just enough to let him know that I’m not intimidated.

His smirk grows.

Damn him.

Before reason can catch up with impulse, I am already moving, the click of my heels lost beneath the din of revelry. I reach him just as he lifts a tumbler of whiskey to his lips, the amber liquid catching the light, a slow-burning promise in a crystal cage.

When he lowers it, his gaze drifts over me, unhurried and knowing, like a man savoring a long-awaited indulgence. And in that moment, though I stand fully clothed, I have never felt more undressed.

"You clean up well, De Luca." His voice is smooth, rich, carrying the faintest trace of amusement.

"And you almost look respectable," I shoot back, tilting my head. "But I suppose even criminals have their moments."

His smirk doesn’t falter, but he says nothing, simply gesturing toward the open terrace. "Walk with me."

I hesitate. Just for a second. Then I step past him, out into the cool night air.

A winding masterpiece of gardens stretches beyond the terrace, manicured hedges and old stone pathways illuminated by flickering lanterns. The sounds of the gala fade behind us as we stroll further into the night, the only noise between us the steady rhythm of our footsteps against the stone.

"I assume you didn’t come tonight just for the champagne," Marco says, slipping his hands into his pockets. "Or are you finally starting to appreciate the finer things in life?"

I scoff. "I came because I wanted to."

"Ah." He nods slowly. "A woman of great conviction."

I narrow my eyes at him. "Don’t pretend you know me."

"Oh, but I do." He stops walking, turning to face me. "You hate men like me because we don’t play by your rules. Because no matter how much you expose in your little articles, people like me will always run this city."

Sudden anger coils in my chest, hot and sour. "People like you are the reason this city is drowning."

He arches a brow. "And yet, it’s my family that keeps it from sinking entirely. We fund the hospitals. We pay for the shelters. We put food on the tables of people your politicians don’t give a damn about."

Damn it, he has a point.

But admitting that to Marco Salvatore would be a mistake of epic proportions. If I so much as hint that my views on his family aren’t entirely black and white, he’ll never let me live it down. And worse, he’ll know he’s gotten under my skin.

Instead, I let out a bitter laugh. "You do that with blood money, Marco."

For just one minuscule second, his smirk fades before he plasters it back on. The Salvatores must always appear indestructible. "And your beloved institutions are any better? You think the politicians inside that ballroom aren’t just as dirty? At least we don’t pretend to be saints."

I open my mouth, ready to argue, to hurl another accusation at him, but before I can, he moves.

His hand curls around my wrist, and in one smooth motion, he pulls me into the shadows of the garden, pressing me against the rough stone of a secluded alcove. My breath catches—not in fear, but—God help me—because I must have imagined this in a thousand sinful dreams.

Marco’s eyes burn into mine, his grip firm but not painful, his chest rising and falling in sync with my own ragged breaths.

"You think you know everything, don’t you?" His voice is lower now, rougher. "But you don’t, Sofia. You only see what you want to see."

I hate the way my pulse quickens, the way my body betrays me by leaning into his warmth instead of shoving him away.

"You—" I start, but before I can finish, his lips crash against mine.