Page 6 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

MARCO

Five Years Ago

T he text is sent, but, much as I want to, I can’t put my phone away. It sits in my palm, the message glaring up at me like an open wound.

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

There’s no doubting that Sofia won’t answer right away. She’s a player, even though she’d die before admitting that. And like all players, she’ll make me wait, let me stew in the aftermath of our hookup, because she’s too damn stubborn to admit what we both already know.

She wants me just as much as I want her.

With a tight breath, I shove my phone into my pocket and push forward, my steps sharp against the marble floors of the Salvatore estate.

History clings to the walls, thick as the scent of aged wood and old secrets.

Chandeliers burn overhead, their flames refracted through crystal, spilling fractured light across the room—shattered gold pooling in corners, flickering over faces frozen in oil and time.

The ancestors watch from their gilded frames, their eyes shadowed but knowing, their legacies etched into the very bones of this house.

Ornate sconces flicker along the corridors, their glow catching on the edges of oil portraits, each one bearing the same sharp jawlines and ruthless eyes. Images of the men who shaped this city, who bent it to their will.

And now, Luca holds their legacy in his hands. No wonder why he’s in such a foul mood these days. I grimace, and wonder, for the fiftieth time in the last minute, why he needs to see me right away.

My brother doesn’t summon me unless there’s a reason. He doesn’t waste time, and he sure as hell doesn’t entertain distractions. That’s exactly what Sofia is, or at least, that’s what I need her to be. A distraction. A mistake I should forget.

I scoff under my breath. No. She’s not a mistake.

She’s a problem.

I adjust my suit jacket, rolling the tension from my shoulders as I near Luca’s study. The heavy oak doors loom in front of me, carved with the crest of our family—a coiled serpent wrapped around a dagger. A warning to anyone who underestimates us.

I don’t bother knocking. The door swings open, and a whiskey-soaked, tobacco-laced drift spreads out languidly, teasing at my nostrils. The smell lets you know that the room is lived-in.

The space is steeped in a quiet, smoldering glow, the kind that clings to leather and wood. Light spills in uneven streaks from the flickering fire in the grate, stretching and twisting over the walls, almost alive.

Luca stands at the window, his back to me, the city stretching beyond the glass in a sprawl of lights that ebb and flow.

His suit is immaculate, pressed to perfection, his posture composed. But I know my brother.

He’s waiting for a fight.

" Fratello ." My voice is even, but there’s an edge to it.

Luca doesn’t immediately turn.

He draws on his cigar, the ember pulsing to life before he exhales, sending tendrils of smoke weaving through the air like unspoken thoughts.

Luca is never still, though I suspect that’s something he inherited from our father more than anything else. Even here, with the estate’s lights spilling over him in uneven streaks, illuminating the sharp lines of his frame, there’s a restless energy thrumming under the seeming stillness.

He isn’t waiting. He’s assessing, turning possibilities over in his mind, stripping everything down to angles, risks, and inevitabilities.

Then, finally, he speaks.

"You were with Sofia tonight." His voice is smooth, even, but I know him well enough to sense the displeasure beneath the courteous tone.

I slide my hands into my pockets and lean against the heavy oak desk, affecting a casualness I don’t feel. "I was."

Luca exhales, just loud enough for it to matter, and turns. He looks like a ghost painted in gold and shadow, his profile etched in the dim glow of the study. Firelight flickers behind him, the city skyline glittering through glass, casting him in perfect half-light.

His sharp eyes cut through the shadows, locking onto mine with quiet authority.

"She’s a complication, Marco." He doesn’t need to elaborate. We both know exactly what he’s talking about.

I roll a shoulder, shrugging off the weight of the conversation. "It was a mistake." The words taste like a lie because they are. "It won’t happen again." And another lie. May as well go big.

Luca watches me, unreadable as ever. Then, with the kind of unhurried grace that makes men nervous, he steps around his desk. "You and I both know that’s bullshit," he says, his tone damn near conversational, like we’re debating wine pairings.

I lift a brow. "You don’t trust me?"

His jaw tics, and I know I’ve irritated him. "I trust you to know better."

His gaze shifts, and now, he eyes me like I’m a soldier who’s stepped out of formation. "Sofia De Luca isn’t just some woman you can toy with, Marco."

I keep my face impassive, but my fists tighten inside my pockets.

"She’s Valentina’s best friend," he continues, his tone cutting. "And that makes her important in the most inconvenient way. But more than that, she’s a journalist, someone who could become a very real threat if she decides to dig too deeply into our world."

I push off the desk and straighten, keeping my stance loose even as irritation gnaws at me. "I know what I’m doing, Luca."

With a light sigh, Luca gives me a long, assessing look before stepping back toward his desk. "Do you?"

He picks up a crystal tumbler, turning it in his hand, before pouring himself a drink. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you’re letting your dick make decisions your head should be handling."

A muscle tenses in my jaw, but I say nothing.

He sets the glass down with a quiet clink , then levels me with a gaze that’s all steel and command. "We’re in the middle of negotiations with the Rossi family. Things are delicate. The last thing we need is a complication."

His voice dips, growing glacial. "If Sofia becomes a problem, I’ll expect you to deal with it. No questions asked."

The fire crackles behind him, casting long, dark fingers along the bookshelves, gilding the edges of his face in amber. He’s dead serious.

I meet his stare, unblinking, my pulse measured, my expression giving nothing away. Whatever knots itself in my chest stays buried deep, because Luca doesn’t tolerate weakness, least of all from the men who were raised alongside him. He was like that even as a kid.

I still remember the day it all clicked, the moment I understood exactly who my brother was destined to be. We couldn’t have been more than twelve and fourteen, still young enough.

There was a boy, one of the runner’s sons, older than me by a year.

He had decided he didn’t like that I was a Salvatore, didn’t like the way our last name carried weight even before we’d grown into it.

So, he waited until the school guards weren’t looking, and knocked me to the pavement and split my lip wide open.

I’d barely pushed myself up when Luca arrived. He didn’t rush. He didn’t shout. He just stepped in front of me, adjusting the cuffs of his pressed shirt like the whole thing bored him. Then he looked at the boy, at the blood on my mouth, and said, "Try that again."

The kid hesitated long enough for Luca to take his wrist and press down. Not a punch, not a wild show of force. Just a simple twist, until the boy dropped to his knees with a choked noise. I can still hear the way Luca spoke to him that day, his voice smooth, patient.

" If you start something, you better be sure you can finish it. Otherwise, you will be forced to kneel."

He let go, wiped his hands like he’d touched something beneath him, and gestueed at me to follow him home.

I never forgot that lesson. And now, standing before him as a grown man, I know the rules haven’t changed. I keep my face still, my spine straight, and nod once, sharp and sure. "Understood."

Luca watches me a beat longer, searching, weighing. Then he reaches for his drink, dismissing me with the action. "Good."

I turn to leave, but his voice stops me.

"One more thing."

I glance over my shoulder.

Luca swirls the whiskey in his glass, not looking at me. "Make sure you actually do."

Luca takes a slow sip of his whiskey, unfazed. This is what we do—what we’ve always done.

I’ve never hesitated before. Orders are orders. But as I turn and walk out of his study, there’s a war waging inside me. Because I want Sofia.

And not in a passing, fleeting way.

She’s in my blood now, under my skin in a way that feels almost reckless.

I stride through the darkened halls of the estate, my thoughts tangled, my pulse thrumming with the remnants of my frustration.

The marble floors are silent beneath my steps, the cold, towering walls lined with ancestral portraits of men who built this empire with blood and steel.

Men who wouldn’t hesitate. Men who took what they wanted and didn’t ask for permission.

I reach the grand entrance, stepping out into the crisp night air.

Fog snakes around the iron gates, curling in lazy, spectral tendrils, as if the estate itself is breathing. Luca’s warning lingers, not in words anymore, but in the space it leaves behind —an unspoken expectation settling into my bones. I should be thinking about it. Turning it over.

Instead, my attention immediately goes to my phone, which is blaring a message.

Sofia : Come over.

Two words, blinking up at me from the screen, shifting the night in a way no threat ever could.

The words hit me like a fist to the ribs. They are like a sharp, clean blow that sends heat rushing through my veins.

I don’t hesitate.

I slip into the driver’s seat, the engine snarling awake as I pull away from the estate, leaving behind stone, power, and the ghosts of unfinished conversations.

The city rises ahead, not just sprawling but pulsing—towering glass and steel drenched in the remnants of rain, the streets glistening like black marble veined with neon.

Traffic signals blink like watchful eyes, their colors bleeding into puddles, distorting beneath the rush of passing tires. The whole place feels restless, alive, humming with stories that will never make the papers.

I push the speedometer past caution, threading through the streets like I own them. Maybe I do. Maybe we all do, in one way or another.

But right now, none of it matters. Right now, there’s only one thing pulling me forward.

Sofia and her fire. Her sharp tongue. The way she looks at me like she wants to tear me apart and put me back together in the same breath.

Maybe Luca is right and the wise thing would be to listen to him.

But I don’t.

When I reach her apartment, I don’t even have time to knock.

The door swings open before I can lift my fist.

And then she’s there, standing in the doorway, her eyes stormy, her lips parted, breath uneven.

Without saying a word, she just grabs my jacket, pulls me inside, and kisses me.

It’s fire and fury, teeth clashing, tongues warring. She tastes like heat, like defiance, like everything I shouldn’t crave but do.

I don’t hold back.

I kick the door shut behind me, my hands already threading through her hair, yanking her head back just enough to expose the column of her throat.

A ragged moan escapes her lips as I drag my mouth down, teeth grazing her pulse point before I claim her lips again, harder this time.

She fights me for control, nails digging into my shoulders, body pressing flush against mine. She’s a live wire, all electricity and recklessness, and I want to feel every damn spark.

With a growl, I spin us, pinning her against the wall. The impact steals her breath, and I feel it—her gasp against my lips, the tremor that runs through her. I seize that moment, pressing my body into hers, my thigh wedging between her legs.

Her fingers tangle in my hair, tugging hard enough to send a sharp zing of pain down my spine. It only fuels me.

"Sofia," I rasp against her lips, my breath hot, my control hanging by a thread.

"Shut up," she whispers back, voice like smoke, like temptation.

Then she pulls me down again, kissing me like she wants to own me. Like she already does.

Her fingers curl tighter in my hair as she pulls me back into her kiss, lips bruising against mine, her tongue hot and demanding.

She catches my lower lip between her teeth, causing a sharp, teasing sting that ignites something deep and primal within me —a spark to dry kindling, a challenge wrapped in heat. It surges through me, dark and undeniable, demanding to be answered.

I press harder into her, feeling the soft curves of her body mold against me, the heat of her seeping into my skin. My hands roam, gripping her waist, her hips, sliding down to cup the perfect curve of her ass.

Our clothes come undone quickly, until she’s got nothing on but her flimsy lace panties.

But then, just as I’m about to take more, she shoves against my chest.

I barely have time to process before she switches things on me.

Sofia pushes me backward, stepping forward with that same fire in her eyes that drives me insane.

"You think you’re in control?" she murmurs, voice thick with desire, hands already working at my belt.

I smirk, watching her sink to her knees. "I always am, sweetheart."

She lets out a dark little laugh, shaking her head. "Not tonight."

And then she unzips me, pulls me free, and wraps her hand around my already aching cock.

A groan rips from my throat as her fingers tighten, slow and teasing.

She flicks her gaze up, lips curling as she pumps once, then twice.

"You talk so much," she purrs, leaning in, letting her warm breath ghost over my sensitive skin. "Let’s see if I can shut you up."

And then she takes me into her mouth.

Fuck.

Heat. Wet, velvet heat, lips sealing around me as she sinks down inch by inch.

My head falls back against the wall, a sharp exhale leaving my lips as she sucks hard, tongue swirling around the head of my cock before sinking lower. My hands find her hair, threading through the silky strands as she works me, teasing me, drawing me deeper into the wet heat of her mouth.

I glance down, and the sight of her—on her knees, eyes locked onto mine as she takes me deeper—sends a raw, feral need surging through me.

"Just like that," I grind out, jaw clenching as she hollows her cheeks, pulling back slowly, teasing me before sinking down again.

She hums around me, and the vibration shoots straight through my spine.

"Fuck, Sofia," I growl, tightening my grip on her hair. "You know exactly what you’re doing, don’t you?"

She pulls off me with a slick pop, her hand gliding slow, coated in her own spit. "Of course I do," she murmurs, her eyes dark with fire. "I want you undone. Shattered. I want to watch you come apart for me."

Jesus.

I let out a harsh breath, barely holding on, barely resisting the urge to fuck her mouth the way I know we both want.

"Open," I demand, voice rough, my thumb grazing her swollen lower lip.

She smirks, then obeys.