Page 48 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

SOFIA

T he villa is a labyrinth of destruction.

Smoke curls along the walls, licking at the edges of crumbling frescoes, twisting into grotesque shapes beneath the flickering light of shattered chandeliers.

Each step sends debris crunching beneath my boots, the remnants of the Lombardi empire crumbling around me.

The scent of burning wood, gunpowder, and something sharper—something metallic and wrong—clings to the back of my throat.

I force my breath to steady, pushing forward, my fingers trailing along the uneven stone for balance. Every instinct inside me screams to turn back, to run, but I can’t.

Not without Marco.

I don’t let myself think about how reckless this is.

I don’t let myself acknowledge the way my pulse flutters, erratic and unsteady, the way my stomach twists with something more than nausea.

I shove all of it down, moving deeper into the shadows, my mind working through every piece of intel I’ve gathered on this villa, every hallway, every hidden passage.

The Lombardis have been expecting an attack. That much is obvious. But this? The explosions, the way the structure groans with every distant detonation—this isn’t just a last stand.

It’s a goddamn execution.

A sudden burst of gunfire cracks from somewhere ahead, followed by the unmistakable snarl of Marco’s voice cutting through the chaos. My heart clenches, my grip tightening on the knife strapped to my thigh.

He’s close.

I move faster, slipping through a jagged opening where the wall has partially collapsed, keeping to the shadows as I edge around the destruction. My pulse beats in my throat, a frantic drum, but I know how to be silent.

I’ve been sneaking into dangerous places my whole life.

But just as I round the next corner, something stops me dead in my tracks.

A door, partially open, the room beyond glowing with the sickly red flicker of exposed wiring and blinking lights.

I step inside.

And I almost choke on the realization of what I’m looking at.

Explosives.

Wired to the walls, stacked in crates, covering nearly every surface. Twisted coils of detonator cables snake across the ground, leading to a central panel humming with energy. The Lombardis didn’t just plan to destroy the villa.

They planned to obliterate it.

I stagger forward, barely breathing as I take it all in, my fingers hovering over the intricate tangle of wires. This is it. This is what they were planning all along.

A kill box.

I swallow hard, my mind racing, cataloging everything I know about demolition setups, about Lombardi tactics, about anything that could help me make sense of this. I spent years investigating crime syndicates, piecing together their operations, unraveling the mechanics of their power.

Now, that knowledge has to save Marco.

I kneel, running my hands over the panel, searching for anything I recognize. My fingers brush a series of pressure triggers, each one connected to a separate line of explosives. I count six of them before stopping, my stomach twisting.

If these go off, no one makes it out of here alive.

The wires tremble beneath my touch, delicate as spider silk, each one a thread in a web that could unravel in an instant. One wrong move, and I won’t get a second chance.

I close my eyes for a brief second, inhaling sharply through my nose, pushing down the fear clawing at my ribs.

Then I get to work.

My hands move quickly, steady despite the rush of adrenaline flooding my veins.

I trace the main circuit, following the power source to its origin, searching for the fastest way to disarm the system.

I recognize some of the wiring—military-grade, sophisticated, designed for controlled demolition.

But the Lombardis are sloppy. They set this up in a hurry, and that’s my only advantage.

I pull a knife from my belt, slipping the blade beneath the primary fuse, cutting just enough to sever the connection without triggering the backup failsafe.

A tiny spark flares, then dies.

One down.

I work my way across the panel, severing each trigger point carefully, my heartbeat a relentless rhythm against my ribs. Every second stretches into eternity, the distant echoes of gunfire and shattering glass reminding me of just how little time I have left.

Marco is still out there.

I grit my teeth, pushing past the ache in my fingers, the tremor of exhaustion creeping in. My vision blurs for a split second, but I blink hard, forcing myself to focus. Almost there.

A final wire, a deep red coil wrapped too tightly around the last trigger point. The master detonator.

My throat tightens.

I know what this means.

Even if I disable the rest, this one could still go off. And I don’t know if I can reach Marco before it does.

A crack echoes through the villa—a structural collapse, somewhere nearby. Dust spills from the ceiling, the walls vibrating with the force of the battle raging outside this room.

I don’t have time to think.

I have to finish this.

My fingers close around the last wire.

And I cut.

The final wire snaps beneath the blade, curling like a severed nerve. The red coil unspools, lifeless.

But nothing happens.

The panel flickers, the armed triggers still glowing, still active. My breath hitches. I scan the mess of wires, hands shaking as I try to find the right connection, the one that will kill the system for good.

My stomach twists.

It’s still live.

Panic flares through me, sharp and cold. I must have miscalculated—must have thought I was cutting the right circuit when I wasn’t even close. I reach for another wire, trying to make sense of the tangled mess before me. If I can just?—

The door explodes open.

The force of it sends a tremor through the unstable walls, dust and bits of plaster drifting from the ceiling. I whirl, my pulse slamming against my ribs.

Vittorio Lombardi stands in the doorway, his presence crackling with fury.

"You bitch."

The word rips through the room, low and venomous. He’s not just angry. He’s seething.

I’ve seen many things in my life—cruel men, ruthless men—but nothing like this.

The rage in his eyes is feral, a hatred so complete it makes the air feel razor-sharp between us. He takes another step in, his gaze flicking to the explosives, the panel still armed, then back to me.

His lips curl.

"You think you’re so fucking clever," he growls, voice thick with contempt. "You think you can waltz in here, cut a few wires, and what—save the day?"

I swallow hard, reaching instinctively for my knife. But he moves faster.

His fist slams into the control panel. Sparks burst from the damaged wiring, an angry, crackling hiss. I flinch, stepping back as the heat licks at my skin, my heart pounding so loud I can hear it in my ears.

He laughs. A short, razor-edged sound.

"Look at you," he sneers. "Fucking shaking. Just like your mother did when my father slit her throat."

The words slice straight through me.

My breath catches. Everything inside me goes still.

He sees the flicker of recognition, the way my fingers tighten around the hilt of my blade, and his grin turns vicious.

"Oh, you didn’t know?" he taunts, tilting his head. "All these years, chasing ghosts, thinking you’d expose the truth? Thinking you’d be the one to burn us down? And you never even realized."

Rage detonates inside me, a scorching, all-consuming force.

I lunge.

But he’s ready.

Vittorio sidesteps at the last second, catching my wrist mid-swing. His grip tightens painfully, twisting my arm until the knife clatters to the ground. I strike out with my free hand, but he blocks me effortlessly, shoving me hard against the control panel.

The edge bites into my back. A sharp, crushing pain.

"You should’ve stayed away," he spits, his breath hot against my face. "You should’ve stayed the fuck away."

I don’t hesitate.

I drive my knee up—hard, aiming for his ribs. He grunts, his hold slipping just enough for me to wrench free. I twist, reaching for my knife?—

Too late.

The back of his hand cracks across my face, snapping my head to the side. My vision goes white-hot, pain bursting across my cheekbone. I stumble, catching myself against the console, my breath coming in ragged gasps.

His hands clamp around my wrists, forcing my arms up, his grip like a vice. He’s strong—too strong—but I refuse to make this easy for him.

I twist, aiming a sharp kick to his shin. He grunts, his hold loosening just enough for me to yank one hand free. I drive my elbow into his ribs, then turn fast, swinging my knife.

But he’s expecting it.

He catches my wrist mid-swing, twisting hard until the blade clatters to the floor. His fingers dig into my throat next, pushing me back against the panel, crushing the breath from my lungs.

I gasp, nails clawing at his wrist, trying to pry him off, but his grip tightens.

"Nasty little bitch," he hisses. "You and your fucking obsession with my family. Did you really think you could stop this?"

Dark spots bloom in my vision. My lungs burn.

Not like this.

I won’t die like this.

His hand flies to his belt, metal glinting in the dim light. A knife.

I barely have time to react before he swings.

I dodge, but not fast enough. The blade slices across my arm, a sharp, burning cut. Blood wells up instantly, warm against my skin.

Vittorio grins.

"Marco won’t make it out of here alive," he sneers. "And neither will you."

I spit blood at his feet. "Go to hell."

He lunges again.

I brace myself, raising my arms, my body coiled to fight?—

Then—

A gunshot.

The door crashes open.

Vittorio barely has time to turn before Marco barrels into the room.

For one terrifying, electrified second, everything stills.

Marco’s gaze finds mine first—wild, searching, his pupils blown wide with fury. He sees the blood on my arm, the bruises forming on my skin. Then his focus snaps to Vittorio.

And something in him breaks.

The gun he fired is already forgotten. He holsters it in one smooth movement and launches himself at Vittorio with nothing but raw, violent rage.

The impact sends them both crashing through the weakened wall.

Plaster explodes, dust choking the air as the two men collapse into the next room.

The sound of their struggle is brutal—flesh meeting flesh, bone against bone, furniture shattering beneath the force of their movements.

I stagger forward, gripping the doorway, my breath still ragged. My arm screams in pain, blood trickling down to my fingertips, but I barely feel it.

Because Marco and Vittorio are fighting like animals.

Marco slams Vittorio into the ground, his fists relentless, his entire body coiled with a vengeance I’ve never seen in him before. There is no control to his fury, no carefully calculated dominance. This isn’t the Marco who commands with precision.

This is the Marco who destroys.

Vittorio twists, shoving Marco off just enough to roll onto his feet. He stumbles, spitting blood, wiping his mouth as he grins.

"You’re too late, Salvatore," he breathes. "Even without the explosives, I’ll still win."

Marco wipes his own split lip, jaw flexing. "You won’t win anything."

Vittorio lunges again, and Marco meets him head-on, their bodies colliding like a thunderclap.