Page 45 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

MARCO

T he sun drags long shadows across the road as we approach the Lombardi villa, the sky bleeding from gold to deep crimson, a fitting omen for the night ahead. Our convoy moves in a tight formation, engines growling low, a slow march toward destruction.

Somewhere across the city, Luca is heading for the docks, his own convoy weaving through the narrow streets of Nuova Speranza, cutting through the veins of a city built on blood and power.

His men will take the waterfront, cut off their supply lines, and burn every last trace of their operation until nothing remains but smoke and sinking wreckage.

We move toward the villa, he moves toward the docks. Two fronts, one war.

I grip the steering wheel, my knuckles taut, my mind razor-sharp.

This war has been brewing for too long. Tonight, I will put an end to it.

I’ll dismantle the Lombardi operation piece by piece, bury them so deep they’ll never crawl their way out.

For Sofia. For the family. For the life that will soon belong to us.

But as we near the gates, something gnaws at the edges of my instincts, a whisper of unease slithering beneath the rage.

It’s too quiet.

The Lombardis should be scrambling by now.

Panicked lookouts should be reporting movement, guards barking orders, men securing the perimeter.

But there’s nothing. No sudden movement, no sign of hurried reinforcements.

The villa stands before us, dark and silent, its wrought-iron gates slightly ajar like a mouth curled into a knowing grin.

"They’re expecting us," one of my best men, Silva, mutters from the passenger seat, his hand resting near his holster.

"I know."

I reach for my radio, clicking it on. "Proceed with caution. They’re waiting for us."

A chorus of confirmations crackles back, but the tension in the air is thick enough to choke on.

I kill the engine, stepping out into the heavy dusk. The moment my boots hit the gravel, my men fan out behind me, weapons drawn, silent, and efficient. Every breath, every step is calculated. I move toward the gates, my senses sharpened to the finest edge.

Nothing about this feels right.

The Lombardis are reckless but not careless. They should be raining bullets on us, trying to hold their ground. Instead, the villa looms ahead, dark and still, as if daring us to come closer.

I don’t hesitate.

I raise my hand, signaling Silva and the others to move. They push forward, cutting through the eerie silence like phantoms. We sweep past the gates, boots crunching against the gravel driveway, eyes scanning every window, every shadow.

Still nothing.

"Check the perimeter," I order, voice low but firm. "No one makes a move until we know what we’re walking into."

Silva nods, disappearing into the dark with a small team. The rest of us advance carefully toward the main house, every instinct inside me bristling like a cornered animal.

Then—movement.

A shadow flickers behind a window on the second floor. A brief flash, gone in an instant, but I saw it. Someone’s there.

I lift my gun.

"Inside. Now."

We breach the front doors in a swift, controlled movement. The entryway is cavernous, high ceilings swallowing the last of the daylight, the faint scent of smoke clinging to the air. The place isn’t abandoned. Someone’s been here recently.

Still, no gunfire. No rush of men to intercept us.

We move deeper.

The house is an intricate web of hallways, grand staircases winding like serpents into the upper levels. The silence presses against me, thick and unnatural.

A trap.

It has to be.

I signal my men to split off into smaller groups, clearing each room methodically. If they want to lure us in, they’ll regret it. I’ve spent my entire life navigating war. They should’ve picked a better battlefield.

I move forward, my steps silent against the polished marble floors.

A door at the end of the hall is cracked open, a faint sliver of light spilling out.

I push inside.

The study is empty except for a single glass of whiskey left on the desk, its contents half-drunk, the ice melted into golden pools. Papers are scattered, maps of the city, notes scrawled in the margins.

This looks disorganized, but too…random. Almost as if someone made a last-minute decision to disappear, and wanted to be theatrical about it. I look around me for a long minute, allowing the pieces to fall together. My gut instincts are screaming—they knew we were coming.

They were ready for us.

And yet, they’re not here. So, what are they playing at?

My grip tightens on my gun, my pulse a steady, controlled rhythm.

They’ve moved. But where?

A voice crackles through my radio.

"Boss," Silva breathes, and for the first time in years, there’s an edge to his tone I don’t like. "The place looks empty."

I exhale through my nose, forcing my mind to sharpen through the frustration.

They’ve abandoned the villa. Pulled their men back, left us with a hollow shell.

Why?

A distraction.

A misdirect.

We push deeper into the Lombardi villa.

Shadows stretch long across the marble floors, flickering with each pass of our tactical lights. The silence is unnatural, heavy with something I can’t yet name.

I don’t like this.

My men move, sweeping each hallway, each room, their weapons raised and ready. We should be facing heavy resistance by now. Instead, we’re being guided—subtly, methodically—through the estate’s corridors. The open doors, the cleared paths, the distant echo of movement leading us forward.

A labyrinth, designed to make us feel like we’re in control.

But I know better.

"Boss," Rico murmurs, falling in step beside me. His gun is up, his sharp gaze sweeping the space ahead. "This isn’t right. They’re leaving gaps—big ones."

"I know," I grit out.

We round another corner. The hallway ahead splits in two directions—one path leading deeper into the villa, the other toward the back exit. A smart man would take the way out, regroup, rethink the approach.

But we didn’t come here to turn back.

"We stick to the plan," I say, adjusting my grip on my weapon. "We find Vittorio, end this."

Silva nods, but his expression remains tense.

A door creaks somewhere up ahead, the sound low and deliberate. I raise my fist, signaling a halt. My men freeze in place, the air shifting as fingers tighten over triggers, as bodies still with measured control.

We wait.

The faintest shuffle of movement filters through the silence—soft, practiced, someone careful but not careful enough.

I lift my chin. Matteo, one of my best, moves ahead, pressing his back against the wall as he approaches the next door. He glances at me, waits for my signal. I give a curt nod.

The door bursts open.

A single shot cracks through the air.

Matteo drops before the sound even fades, blood spraying the wall behind him.

"Shit—" Silva’s curse is drowned out by the eruption of gunfire.

Bullets rip through the space, shattering the illusion of control. The hallway explodes into chaos—shouts, bodies moving, gunfire flashing in bursts of light.

"Cover!" I bark, pressing against the wall, returning fire.

The enemy is positioned perfectly, using the narrow corridor to their advantage, forcing us into the kill zone. A fucking ambush.

I knew it.

I fucking knew it.

"Pull back to the main hall!" I order, my voice sharp over the gunfire. "We’re regrouping."

My men move with trained efficiency, laying down cover fire as we push back the way we came. Rico drags Matteo’s body with him, his expression like granite, unreadable.

We make it back to the villa’s grand entrance, taking cover behind a row of heavy columns. Gunfire still echoes through the halls, but it’s distant now, contained.

"How many?" I demand.

"More than expected," Rico grits out, reloading. "At least fifteen, maybe more. All stationed deep inside, waiting."

Waiting for us.

He knew we were coming. He didn’t just retreat—he set the stage, let us walk straight into his goddamn trap.

"Matteo’s gone," Silva says quietly.

I nod once, jaw locked. We don’t have time to mourn.

"We have to break their formation," I say, scanning the space. "Cut them off before they push us out."

Silva exhales hard, but nods. "You got a plan for that?"

I do.

But I don’t like it.

The only way to end this is to go deeper—to push past their defenses, split their forces, and make sure they never walk out of here alive. It means taking risks. It means going exactly where they want us to.

It means I have to play into the trap to spring it.