Page 50 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

SOFIA

M y hands tremble as I yank the final wire free.

For a split second, I don’t breathe. I don’t move.

I stare at the mess of deactivated circuits and dead wires in front of me, my brain scrambling to process the fact that it’s over—that it worked.

The detonator flickers, its once-glowing interface blinking out into nothing.

The bombs are useless now.

A harsh exhale rattles out of me, but I don’t let myself collapse—not yet. My muscles are coiled tight, adrenaline still burning in my veins. Because I know it’s not over until we get the hell out of here.

I whip around just as Marco steps closer, his gun still clenched in his bloodstained hand. His chest rises and falls heavily, his jaw set tight. Vittorio’s body lies between us, motionless, eyes forever frozen in shock.

It’s over.

At least, this part is.

Marco meets my gaze, and for a moment, we just stand there, breathing, caught between survival and the weight of what we’ve just done.

Then he moves.

In two strides, he’s at my side, his hands gripping my arms, checking me over, his dark eyes scanning for injuries.

"Are you hurt?" His voice is rough, frantic in a way I’ve never heard before.

I shake my head quickly. "No. I—I got the last one. The bombs won’t go off."

Marco’s eyes flick past me to the disabled detonator. His fingers tighten, his grip unsteady, as if the adrenaline still hasn’t left his body.

For a moment, I think he’s going to say something—something more than just good job or let’s go.

But then, from outside—gunfire.

My heart stops.

Marco’s head snaps up, his entire body shifting instantly into fight mode. He yanks me behind him, his gun raised again, his posture rigid.

I whip my head toward the door, listening, waiting. But the gunfire isn’t close. It isn’t inside the villa.

It’s outside.

"Salvatores," Marco mutters, reading the situation faster than I can. "Cleaning up the last of them."

The Lombardis have lost. And they know it.

Marco exhales slowly, rolling his shoulders back, the tension in his body refusing to fade.

Blood streaks his skin, sweat glistens along his temple, his chest rising and falling in steady, measured breaths.

He’s just taken down Vittorio Lombardi, just survived a war that could have destroyed everything.

And yet?—

His hands are still on me.

Even as the world outside collapses, even as dust settles over the ruins of an empire that no longer exists, he won’t let go.

I swallow, my throat raw. "We should go."

His grip tightens for a fraction of a second. Then, with a slow nod, he releases me.

"We’re leaving."

We.

We move quickly through the ruined hallways, both of us on high alert. The villa is silent now—eerily so.

The aftermath of war.

Shattered glass glitters beneath the dim light of dawn, reflecting the wreckage of a dynasty reduced to rubble.

Bodies of fallen Lombardi men line the corridors, their loyalty repaid in blood.

The heavy scent of gunpowder and death lingers in the air, clinging to the cracked marble, seeping into the foundations of a house that will never stand the same way again.

The farther we walk, the more Marco’s men come into view. The Salvatores have won.

And beyond this villa, beyond this battlefield, the destruction stretches farther than the Lombardis could have imagined.

Their empire didn’t just fall here tonight. It burned across the city.

Marco’s men took the docks before the Lombardis even realized what was happening, sweeping through the waterfront with ruthless precision.

The shipments are gone—stolen, destroyed, or sunk beneath the dark waters.

Their foot soldiers scattered, their captains executed, their safe houses emptied.

Luca made sure of that. By the time the Lombardis had turned their focus back to the villa, the lifeblood of their empire had already been drained from the veins of Nuova Speranza.

The Salvatores don’t just own this city now.

They are the city.

I can see it in the way Marco’s men stand now—not tense, not uncertain, but victorious.

The war is over.

And the Salvatores are the last ones standing.

Lorenzo and Silva meet us at the exit, their weapons still drawn, their expressions hard but relieved when they see Marco.

"Boss," Silva greets, his voice steady. "We’re clear."

Marco nods once, his posture straightening fully. "The Lombardi loyalists?"

"Some ran. Some fought back. None are left standing." Lorenzo exhales, wiping the blood from his cheek. "We lost a few, but it’s done. Vittorio?"

Marco doesn’t answer immediately.

He doesn’t have to.

Lorenzo glances at me, then at Marco, reading between the lines. A slow nod. Understanding.

Outside, the Salvatore men gather like ghosts emerging from the wreckage.

There aren’t as many as before.

We’ve lost men tonight.

But the ones left standing—they won.

The sky is softening to pale blue as dawn stretches over the battlefield. The villa—a hollowed-out corpse of a kingdom—stands in the distance, broken and lifeless, its once-grand walls scarred with bullet holes.

Marco steps forward first, his shoulders squared, his head held high.

He’s won the war.

He’s standing at the center of what remains, his men looking to him, waiting for his word. The power that has always clung to him, that has always made men bow at his feet, is absolute now.

And me?

I exhale, finally letting the last of the fear drain from my limbs.

The Lombardi threat has been eliminated, and the Salvatores have emerged victorious, but it’s clear that nothing will ever be the same.

The world is quiet. For the first time in what feels like forever.

A soft sun shines over the horizon, casting its golden glow over the wreckage. The Lombardi villa stands broken behind us, a hollow ruin of what was once an empire. Smoke lingers in the air, thick with the scent of gunpowder and scorched wood, but the fight is over. The war is over.

And yet, my body still hums with the remnants of adrenaline, my muscles coiled too tight, my breath uneven. I don’t know how to be still.

But Marco does.

His arms wrap around me, solid, grounding, unshakable. He doesn’t say anything at first—just holds me there, amidst the chaos and the silence, his heart beating steadily against my back.

I exhale, letting my weight sink into him, letting myself believe, even if just for a second, that we made it. That we survived.

"You saved us," he murmurs against my hair.

I shake my head. "You saved me first."

He turns me toward him, tilting my chin up with the rough press of his fingers. His dark eyes sweep over my face, unreadable but heavy, as if searching for something, as if memorizing me all over again.

Then, softer than I expect, he says, "I don’t want to do this without you."

My chest tightens, something delicate cracking open inside me.

There’s too much between us—too much history, too much fire, too much war—but this moment? This is ours. Just us.

His thumb brushes over my cheek. "Say something."

I swallow, feeling the ache in my throat, the exhaustion pressing down on my limbs. But beneath it all, there’s something else. Something steady.

I grip the lapels of his jacket, holding him there, as if I’m afraid the world will shift again, as if I’ll wake up and find this was all just another cruel trick of fate.

"I don’t want to do this without you either."

Marco exhales, long and slow. And then he kisses me.

Not like before—not urgent, not desperate, not fueled by the fear of losing me. This kiss is different. This is a promise. A beginning.

I don’t realize people are watching until the sound of approaching footsteps forces us apart.

I blink, still breathless, as one of Marco’s men steps forward, holding a small, ornate box and a bouquet of crimson roses.

I freeze.

Marco doesn’t.

He takes the box without a word, his fingers brushing over the velvet as if testing its weight. Then—before I can fully process what’s happening—he lowers himself to one knee.

The breath punches out of me.

"Marco—"

"I know this isn’t how I planned it." His voice is rough, but certain. "And I know I haven’t given you an easy time of it, but I love you, Sofia. I love you in ways I don’t know how to explain, in ways that make me selfish and reckless and desperate to keep you safe, no matter the cost."

I press a hand to my mouth. My heart is a riot in my chest.

"I don’t want to waste another second," he says, flipping the box open to reveal the most breathtaking ring I’ve ever seen—a deep red ruby, set in gold, dark as blood and fire. "I want you, I want our family, I want a life where you never feel like you have to run from me again."

The words lodge in my throat.

Marco watches me, unwavering. Unbreakable.

"Marry me."

The world narrows.

The wind picks up, rustling through the trees, carrying the scent of roses and smoke. The men around us fade into the periphery. All I see is him—this man, who has fought for me, bled for me, who will never let me go.

The weight of the last few weeks—the battles, the bloodshed, the impossible choices—crash over me.

But standing here, looking at him, there’s only one answer.

"Yes," I whisper.

Then, louder, "Yes."

A slow smile curves his lips before he slides the ring onto my finger, his touch lingering, warm and sure.

And then he’s up, pulling me against him, crushing his mouth to mine, sealing the promise between us.