Page 5 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

SOFIA

Five Years Ago

T he right thing would be to shove him away. I should definitely do that, should slap him, curse his name, storm back into that ballroom and drown my foolishness in overpriced champagne.

What I definitely shouldn’t do is kiss him back. But it’s too late, because the second Marco’s lips crash into mine, I lose every ability to think straight.

His mouth is hot and demanding, claiming me like he has every right to, like he already knows I won’t fight him. His tongue parts my lips, and I meet him without hesitation, tasting whiskey and sin and everything I should never want.

A groan rumbles from his chest as he presses me harder against the stone wall, one large hand braced beside my head while the other grips my hip, pulling me flush against him. There’s nothing soft or patient about the way he kisses me—it’s rough, punishing, designed to remind me exactly who he is.

I feel him already, thick and hard against my stomach, and a wicked thrill shoots straight through me at the sheer size of him.

"You’ve been fighting me all night," Marco murmurs against my lips, his teeth grazing my lower lip before biting down just hard enough to make me gasp. "But look at you now."

His voice is a low rasp, dark and dripping with amusement.

"You like this, don’t you, Sofia?" He drags his lips down my throat, nipping at the sensitive skin. "You like being handled like this."

I hate how much I do.

My hands, traitorous things, tangle into his hair, my nails scratching against his scalp as I tug him closer.

His voice drapes over me like velvet pulled through fire—rich, searing, and indulgently slow. It doesn’t ask; it claims, sending a thrill down my spine that I’ll pretend not to feel.

But he catches it.

His hand slides up my thigh, fingers teasing the slit in my dress, shoving it aside as he forces my leg over his hip. The movement sends my balance teetering, but Marco holds me firm.

"Say it," he demands, his breath hot against my neck. "Tell me you want this."

I refuse to give him that satisfaction.

So I lift my chin, my lips curving into a defiant smirk. "Make me."

The challenge barely leaves my mouth before Marco moves.

In one swift motion, he spins me, pressing my front against the cold stone wall, his body caging mine from behind. The roughness of the alcove contrasts against the heat of his body, making me shiver.

Then his hand grips my jaw, turning my face just enough for his lips to brush against my ear.

"Careful what you ask for, baby." His voice is pure filth, dark and laced with a promise I already know he’ll keep. "Because I don’t do soft."

I arch against him, a breathless sound escaping me as his hand skims up my thigh, pushing my dress higher, higher— until the night air kisses the bare skin beneath.

"No panties?" His chuckle is wicked, full of male arrogance. "You came to a fucking mafia gala like this?"

His fingers brush against my slit, finding me already slick, needy, shamelessly wet.

"For someone who hates me so much, you’re soaking for me," he murmurs, his tone full of cruel amusement.

I bite my lip, refusing to give him the reaction he wants.

He doesn’t like that.

His fingers stroke between my folds, lazy and teasing, just enough to make me squirm.

"I asked you a question, baby," he rasps, pressing a single finger inside me, slow and deep.

I moan, my fingers curling against the stone wall as I push back against him.

"Answer me." He adds a second finger, curling them just right, dragging a sharp cry from my lips.

"Yes," I gasp, hating how I sound. "I—fuck—I wanted you to look."

Marco groans, his free hand gripping my hip, holding me still as he fingers me harder.

"That’s the first honest thing you’ve said all night."

I want to snap at him, to give him some sharp-witted comeback. But he crooks his fingers just right, his thumb brushing over my clit, and all that comes out is a broken moan.

He laughs, low and dark, dragging his lips along the side of my neck.

"Look at you," he murmurs.

I want to argue, but my hips are already rocking into his hand, chasing every stroke.

He doesn’t give me the chance to come.

Not like this.

He pulls away, and I make a sound of protest, but he’s already yanking at his belt, unzipping his slacks.

Then I feel his cock, thick, heavy, pressing against my entrance.

A sharp inhale leaves me as he drags the head of his cock through my slick folds, teasing, tormenting.

"Is this what you want, Sofia?" Marco growls, his voice rough with restraint.

I nod frantically, pushing back against him, needing more.

But he doesn’t give in so easily.

"Use your words." His hand grips my jaw again, tilting my head back just enough that his lips brush my ear. "Tell me how badly you want me to fuck you."

"Marco," I plead, shameless, shaking.

He grins.

"That’s what I thought."

Then he thrusts into me, hard and deep, filling me in one brutal stroke.

I cry out, my back arching, my nails scraping against the stone wall as he buries himself inside me.

"Fuck, you’re tight," he grits out, his fingers digging into my hips, holding me in place as he pulls out—only to slam back in.

We’re out in the open, people nearby, but I don’t care.

I’m too busy being wrecked.

He fucks me deep, hard, relentless, every stroke pushing me closer to the edge.

"You feel that?" His breath is ragged against my skin. "That’s me owning you."

I moan, too lost in pleasure to argue.

His grip tightens, his thrusts turning brutal, desperate.

"Come for me, Sofia," he commands, his hand sliding down to rub my clit, pushing me over the edge.

I shatter, my body convulsing as he groans, his hips snapping forward one last time as he spills inside me, his grip just shy of bruising.

For a long moment, neither of us speaks, our breaths still uneven in the charged silence. I smooth my dress with deliberate precision, willing my pulse to settle, then lift my gaze to scowl at him. Marco, infuriating as ever, meets it with a slow, satisfied smirk.

"Always a pleasure," he murmurs, his voice dripping with wicked amusement.

Before I can summon a sharp retort, a sudden rustle in the bushes beyond the alcove shatters the moment. Instinct kicks in—I take two quick steps back, putting as much space between us as possible, as if distance alone can erase what just happened.

The rustling grows louder, and then Antonio Mancini steps into view.

I know that name. Everyone in Nuova Speranza does.

Mancini isn’t just one of Luca’s top men—he’s the Salvatore family’s silent architect of ruin, the man who reshapes the world with pressure, persuasion, and when necessary, a perfectly timed disappearance.

If a problem lingers too long, if a deal refuses to close, Mancini doesn’t make it vanish—he makes it inevitable.

I’ve written about him before—never by name, because even the boldest reporters know better. But his handiwork lingers in the spaces between the headlines.

Political opponents who abandon their campaigns without explanation.

Business owners who hold out until, inexplicably, they don’t. Deals sealed with a handshake one day and regret the next.

He doesn’t need a gun to end a war—just time, patience, and the right pressure applied in all the wrong places.

Seeing him up close is unsettling.

He’s younger than I expected, barely into his thirties, with the kind of sharp, wolfish features that belong to someone who enjoys his job a little too much.

His dark suit is pressed to perfection, but there’s a casual arrogance in the way he wears it, his tie slightly loosened, his stance just shy of disrespectful.

His eyes, sharp and knowing, flick from Marco to me, and the slow, satisfied smirk that stretches across his face makes my stomach turn.

"Well, well," Mancini drawls, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "If it isn’t Sofia De Luca."

I school my expression into something impassive, but my fingers twitch at my sides. The way he says my name makes it clear—he knows exactly who I am.

Marco exhales sharply, like he’s already out of patience. "What do you want, Mancini?"

Antonio ignores him, eyes still locked on me like he’s peeling back layers. "I gotta admit, I didn’t expect this. You, in a Salvatore’s arms."

He tilts his head, feigning curiosity. "Didn’t you write some scathing piece about our corrupt criminal empire last year?"

I don’t flinch. I meet his gaze head-on. "If you read it, you’d know I wrote about the Lombardis too."

Mancini grins, all teeth. "Fair. But still, boss, you should’ve warned me you were slumming it with the press."

His gaze flicks to Marco, full of mock amusement. "Luca’s looking for you. Something about finalizing negotiations. You know— actual business, not…extracurricular activities." He turns back to me, his smirk widening. "Or is this research? A little hands-on investigative journalism?"

My blood runs hot.

Marco shifts slightly, like he’s preparing to step between us, but I don’t give him the chance.

"You must be confusing me with the women you spend your time with, Mancini," I say, my voice cool, cutting. "Some of us don’t need to trade favors to get what we want."

Mancini chuckles. "Feisty. No wonder you like her, boss." Then he leans in slightly, his voice dropping just enough to make it feel personal. "Just don’t let her get too comfortable. We both know you don’t keep things around for long."

I feel it like a slap.

I turn to Marco, waiting— waiting —for him to shut this down. To at least have the decency to deny it.

But he doesn’t.

His expression is unreadable, like this conversation is beneath him. Like I’m beneath him.

And that? That is what snaps the last fragile thread of my patience.

I smile, sharp as a blade. "You know what, Mancini?" I say sweetly. "You’re absolutely right. Marco is a selfish bastard."

Marco’s jaw tightens. Finally, a reaction.

But I don’t care.

I push past him, past Mancini, my heels clicking against the stone with every step. I don’t look back, don’t give either of them the satisfaction of seeing just how deep that cut.

I don’t stop walking until I’m outside the estate, the night air cool against my heated skin.

Later that night, I find myself curled up on my couch with my laptop open, trying and failing to focus on work. My phone buzzes.

I don’t expect it to be him.

But it is.

Marco: I can’t live with this being a one-time thing. Can you?

A sharp breath escapes me, my fingers tightening around the phone. Damn him.