Page 40 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

SOFIA

T he first thing I do once I get back home is take a shower.

Hot water cascades over my skin, washing away the grime of the forest, the sweat, the fear.

I tilt my head back, eyes closed, letting the steam curl around me like a veil, loosening muscles that have been wound too tight for too long.

The scent of Marco's soap lingers on my skin, rich and dark, a reminder of hands that held me just hours ago.

There is none of that searing anger that drove me to run in the first place.

Instead, all I feel is exhaustion.

I press my forehead against the cool tile, inhaling deeply, but even as the water soothes me, my mind refuses to quiet.

I keep replaying the moment Marco found me in the forest—the way his voice cut through the chaos, the way his hands trembled ever so slightly as he untied my wrists.

He was furious, yes, but beneath the rage, there was something else.

The jagged edges of whatever this is between us—this tangled, thorny thing I hesitate to call a relationship—begin to blur.

They soften, rounding into something unexpectedly, achingly tender.

A fragile bloom pushing through the fractures of something broken, like a single snowdrop defying the frost, reaching for the pale light of day.

It seeps into me, this quiet, unspoken thing.

Not a rush, not a wildfire, but something deeper, something that takes root in the hollow spaces I once thought were barren.

It echoes, like whispers in the vaulted stillness of an abandoned cathedral, resonating in places I had long since forgotten existed.

It feels…like love.

Not the kind that crashes in, reckless and all-consuming.

Not the kind that drowns. No, this is something hesitant, something trembling, like the first stretch of wings before flight.

A tentative thing, delicate yet undeniable.

And the strangest part—the part that should send me reeling, clawing for distance—is that it doesn’t.

The fear I was bracing for, the familiar, ice-cold panic of losing myself, never comes. It lingers at the edges like a ghost, but it doesn’t take hold. In its place, there’s something else.

A flicker of quiet, fragile hope, its glow wavering but steady. Or maybe it’s just stillness—the rare, unfamiliar kind that follows a storm, when the world feels impossibly new, washed clean by chaos.

A knock at the door startles me.

"Sofia?"

It’s Valentina.

I turn off the water and grab a towel, wrapping it tightly around myself before cracking open the door. She’s standing there, arms crossed, her dark eyes searching mine.

"You’ve been in there forever," she says lightly. "Come to the kitchen."

"I’m not really hungry."

She arches a brow. "Liar."

And my stomach betrays me with a low, insistent growl.

A small smile tugs at the corner of her lips. "That’s what I thought."

I hesitate, but she doesn’t wait for me to decide. She just turns and walks down the hall, expecting me to follow.

And, for some reason, I do.

The kitchen is warm, filled with the rich scent of garlic and tomatoes simmering on the stove. Valentina moves, pulling out a bundle of fresh basil, slicing into a loaf of bread, tossing a pinch of salt into a pot like she’s done this a thousand times. Maybe she has.

"Sit," she says, nodding toward the stool at the counter. "Eat."

I slide onto the seat, watching as she plates up a heaping portion of pasta, steam curling off the fresh sauce, the scent alone making my mouth water. She sets it in front of me with a satisfied nod.

I take the first bite.

Heaven.

The tang of tomatoes, the silk of olive oil, the bite of garlic and basil—it’s warmth, comfort, home in a way I hadn’t expected. I take another bite, then another, and for a moment, nothing else exists except the pure, sensory bliss of food and the way it fills something hollow inside me.

Then my mind betrays me.

Where is Marco right now? What is he doing? Will he come back?

I set my fork down, my appetite vanishing as quickly as it came.

Valentina watches me carefully, her own plate untouched. "You’re thinking about him."

I shake my head. "I don’t know what I’m thinking."

She sets down her knife. "I used to tell myself the same thing."

I glance up. "What do you mean?"

Her lips press together, as if debating whether to say more. Then she nods, as if making a decision.

"When I left Luca, I thought I was doing the right thing," she says. "I ran, thinking I could build a life without him. And I did. I opened a café in Sicily. I had friends, security, a little world that was mine."

Her voice dips lower, softer. "But I was alone.

I told myself I was free, but every day felt empty.

No one challenged me the way Luca did. No one made me feel the way he did.

I told myself I left for my son, but the truth?

" She meets my gaze. "I think I left because I was scared of how much I needed him. "

I swallow, the words settling like stones in my chest.

"I had everything, Sofia. But I didn’t have him. " She looks down at her hands. "And I realized too late that life meant nothing without the person who made it matter."

Before I can respond, the sound of small footsteps fills the air.

I turn just as a boy rushes in, dark curls tousled, his face still soft with sleep. Valentina’s expression shifts instantly—her features softening, her posture loosening.

"Leo," she murmurs, reaching for him. "What are you doing awake?"

The boy rubs his eyes, mumbling something about a bad dream. Without hesitation, Valentina pulls him close, pressing a kiss to his forehead. He melts into her embrace, safe, secure.

And something inside me aches.

He’s whole. He has both of his parents. He has a mother who would cross oceans for him and a father who, for all his ruthlessness, would burn the world to keep him safe.

I press my hand to my stomach, feeling the faintest flutter beneath my palm.

"What made you come back?" I whisper.

Valentina meets my eyes, and there’s no hesitation in her answer. "I realized Luca was the only place I’d ever truly belonged."

A lump rises in my throat.

She sighs, brushing Leo’s curls from his forehead. "The Salvatores…they’re not like the Lombardis, Sofia. They don’t just take. They give. They built Nuova Speranza from the ground up. They keep the worst of the world at bay. They protect what’s theirs."

I let out a slow, shaky breath.

"And Marco?" I ask, the words barely more than a whisper.

Valentina smiles, something knowing in her eyes. "Marco is Nuova Speranza, just like Luca and Dante. And, for better or worse…you are his."

I lower my gaze to my half-empty plate, tracing a finger absently against the rim.

The room holds its silence gently, broken only by the soft, rhythmic ticking of the clock and the distant murmur of life beyond these walls.

Voices drift in and out, half-formed and weightless, footsteps whisper against marble, a quiet rhythm to a world that moves endlessly forward, never truly resting, never truly still.

Valentina sighs and reaches for my hand, giving it a squeeze. "I should check on Leo before bed," she says gently, as if she senses I need space to process everything she’s just laid at my feet.

I nod, grateful.

She rises, gathering the dishes with practiced ease. "Eat a little more," she says, nodding toward my plate. "For the baby."

I manage a small smile, one she returns before heading toward the doorway. She hesitates just before leaving, her hand resting lightly against the frame. "Marco will be back soon."

It’s a statement, not a question. Not a guess.

She knows, just as I do, that he’ll always come back to me.

Then she’s gone, her footsteps fading into the hall.

I sit there for a while, staring at the candlelit space around me, at the remnants of dinner, at the glass of water in front of me that I suddenly can’t bring myself to drink.

Finally, I push away from the table, my body sore and heavy, and make my way toward the grand windows overlooking the gardens.

The night sprawls endlessly before me, a vast expanse of inky darkness, thick with shifting shadows that stretch and curl like unseen specters.

The wind weaves through the trees, rustling their branches in a low, conspiratorial whisper, carrying the scent of damp earth and the lingering chill of the evening.

Then—low and distant—a car engine growls.

A low heat unfurls in my stomach, climbing up my neck, into the very recesses of my mind.

I don’t move. I wait, heart pounding in a slow, precarious rhythm. The headlights cut across the driveway, the engine purring low as the car pulls to a stop.

The door opens.

Marco steps out.

Even from here, I can see the exhaustion lining his face, the weight of the day hanging from his shoulders like a cloak. His movements are fluid but sharp, controlled in the way of a man who has seen too much, done too much, and isn’t ready to let his guard down just yet.

He’s back.

And, for once, I know what to do with the relief that floods through me. When he’s nearer, I begin running. I don’t stop until he’s holding me in his arms.