Page 9 of The Underboss’s Secret Twins (Underworld Heirs #2)

SOFIA

The Present Day

M y apartment is a disaster.

Not in the charming, artistic way people like to romanticize—the kind where books are stacked just so, and a forgotten cup of coffee lends a certain moody aesthetic to the chaos. No, this is full-scale wreckage.

Newspapers with scribbled notes spill off my dining table, my laptop screen is a warzone of open tabs, and the whiteboard propped against the wall looks like it belongs to a conspiracy theorist rather than a journalist. Strings and arrows connect names, dates, crime scenes—an intricate web of corruption that all leads back to one name.

Lombardi.

I take a sip of cold coffee, grimacing as I set the mug down on a pile of printouts. My place smells like burned toast—my failed attempt at breakfast an hour ago—but I’m too deep into my research to care.

Every piece of evidence I’ve uncovered over the years, every lead that’s taken me deeper into the filth of Nuova Speranza, tells me one thing: the Lombardis are untouchable.

But untouchable doesn’t mean invincible.

The shrill buzz of my phone cuts through the silence. I glance at the screen, and anticipation tightens my stomach.

Detective Enrico Marino is calling.

His name is significant because he is the only cop in this godforsaken city who hasn’t sold his soul to men like Vittorio Lombardi.

Telling myself to stay calm, I pick up. "Tell me you’ve got something."

"Not over the phone," Marino replies in a clipped, harried voice. "But yeah, I’ve got something big, Sofia. This isn’t just another piece of the puzzle—this is the whole damn picture."

I lean forward, tension threading through my spine. "How big?"

"The kind of evidence that could bring the Lombardi operation down. Surveillance footage. Faces, names, timestamps—undeniable proof of their involvement in at least three murders, not to mention police payoffs and racketeering."

My pulse kicks up. "Please tell me you got this legally."

There’s a pause at the other end of the line, a hesitation just long enough to make my stomach sink.

"Let’s say it was obtained…off the books."

Of course.

I press my fingers to my temple. "Jesus, Marino. If this footage wasn’t obtained through legal channels, no judge is going to?—"

"I know," he snaps, exasperated. "But that doesn’t mean it’s useless. It’s leverage, Sofia. If we play this right, it could be the key to dismantling their entire empire."

Leverage.

The word tastes bitter on my tongue.

Because that’s exactly how things work in this city. It’s never about justice or the law. It’s about who has the most ammunition when the real battle begins.

I should tell Marco. But Marco swore an oath—to Luca, to his family—to keep me out of this world. It’s the one rule he won’t break, the line he refuses to let me cross. Maybe that’s why we still work, in our own twisted way. Our version of a relationship is anything but clean, anything but simple.

Marco doesn’t want me anywhere near his business. And if he knew what I was about to do, he’d put a bullet in it before I even got the chance.

I can’t let that happen.

"Where do you want to meet?" I ask.

"A small café downtown. Somewhere neutral." Marino hesitates. "I don’t like this, Sofia. If the Lombardis catch wind of what I have, I’m as good as dead."

A shiver runs down my spine. He’s not wrong.

"I’ll be careful," I say, more for my own benefit than his.

"Be smart," he corrects. "I’ll see you in an hour."

The call disconnects.

I exhale slowly, staring at my phone like it might spontaneously combust. The logical part of me—the one that values my life—tells me I should sit this one out. Walk away, pretend I never got that call.

But I’ve never been great at listening to logic.

The other side of my brain—the side that doesn’t give a damn about logic, the side that runs on pure survival instinct—tells me one thing: Go. And don’t go alone.

I need protection. And when it comes to protection, there’s only one name that matters.

With a resigned sigh, I pull up Marco’s number and type out a message before I can talk myself out of it.

Meet me. Urgent.

Three dots appear almost instantly.

Where?

I send him the location of the café and toss my phone onto the table so that doubt won’t sink its claws into me.

This is the right move. Having Marco there ensures my safety. He’s my insurance policy in case things go sideways.

But that’s the thing about insurance policies.

They only work if you tell them what they’re covering.

And right now, Marco has no idea what I’m dragging him into.

The thought presses against my ribs all the way to the cafe. It doesn’t leave, even as I pace the café’s seedy interior, my fingers wrapped around a lukewarm cup of coffee that I have no intention of drinking.

The place is nearly empty, save for a few elderly men playing chess in the back and a barista who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. It’s the kind of café where no one asks questions, where the smell of burned espresso lingers in the air like an old secret.

I settle into a booth near the window, my knee bouncing under the table. It’s been twenty minutes since I sent Marco the message, and even though I know he’ll come, my stomach twists at the thought of what he’ll say when he realizes what I’ve done.

He’ll be pissed.

And honestly? He has every right to be.

I told myself I wasn’t going to involve him—not fully. But the moment Marino called, the moment I realized how deep this could go, I knew I couldn’t do it alone.

Even as I’m thinking, the bell above the café door chimes, and my breath catches.

Marco strides inside like he owns the place.

Which, knowing him, isn’t entirely impossible.

He’s dressed in dark slacks and a fitted navy button-down, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense. His presence is commanding, dangerous in a way that’s subtle, refined. He embodies the kind of danger that doesn’t announce itself but instead lingers in the air, coiled and ready to strike.

His eyes find me instantly, locking on with a heat that’s almost suffocating, like he sees right through me, like he already knows why I’m here.

I fight the urge to fidget, but I can’t stop the way my pulse races under his stare.

Marco approaches the table, sliding into the seat across from me with an effortless grace that only men like him seem to possess. He leans back, fingers drumming against the edge of the table as he studies me, his expression still rife with languid heat.

"You called me in the middle of a meeting," he says, his voice husky.

I clear my throat. "I need a favor."

His brow lifts, just slightly.

I hate how good he looks when he does that.

"You don’t ask for favors," he says, watching me carefully. "You demand them. Or you blackmail people into giving them to you."

I roll my eyes, though this is the least confident I’ve felt doing it. "Charming."

His lips quirk into something that isn’t quite a smirk, but his eyes remain cold.

"Sofia," he says, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. "Tell me what the hell is going on."

I hesitate.

Because this is the moment. The moment I tell him, and the moment everything changes.

But before I can answer, the door swings open again, and Enrico Marino steps inside.

Damn it, he looks awful. A shadow of stubble dusts his jaw, rough and unkempt, like he hasn’t had the time—or the will—to shave. His lips are drawn into a tight line, and the deep crease between his brows makes him look older, harder. But it’s his eyes that hit me hardest.

Dressed in a wrinkled button-down and dark jeans, he moves quickly, eyes scanning the café with the kind of nervous energy that makes me queasy. When he spots me, he heads straight for the booth, sliding in beside me without so much as a greeting.

"We don’t have much time," he mutters, his breath smelling faintly of coffee and cigarettes.

Marco stiffens beside me.

I don’t miss the way his entire body shifts—muscles tightening, posture straightening, like he’s preparing for something he can’t quite name yet.

Marino pulls a small USB drive from his pocket and places it on the table, his fingers curling over it protectively. "This is it. The evidence I told you about."

"And what, exactly, is it?" Marco asks, his tone lethally calm.

Marino glances between us. "Surveillance footage. Hours of it. It links the Lombardis to multiple high-profile murders, police payoffs—you name it." His voice drops lower. "If this gets out, it could bring their whole operation down."

Marco’s expression darkens, his jaw clenching as realization dawns. Slowly, his eyes lift to mine.

"You brought me into this without telling me?" he asks, his voice a quiet blade.

I swallow hard.

"I didn’t want to put you in a difficult position," I say quickly, trying to keep my voice steady. "You have your family to think about. If I told you?—"

"You think this is better?" His voice is low, rough. "That you’d rather blindside me?"

I shake my head, trying to push down the frustration bubbling in my chest. "I didn’t have time to argue with you, Marco. This is bigger than?—"

A sudden screech of tires outside cuts me off.

The sound is sharp, jarring.

Every muscle in Marco’s body goes rigid.

The café falls silent, the air shifting. Even the barista, half-asleep behind the counter, seems to sense something is wrong.

I turn toward the window just as a black SUV jerks to a stop in front of the café.

The doors fly open.

Men spill out, fast and efficient. Dark suits. Armed.

There’s no doubting that they are Lombardi enforcers.

Whatever breath I had left in my lungs is exhaled in an instant.

Fortunately, Marco doesn’t waste any time. In one swift motion, he grabs my wrist and yanks me toward him, pressing my body close to his as he angles us away from the window. His free hand moves to his waistband, where I know—I know —he’s carrying a gun.

Across from us, Marino is frozen, his face pale.

"You led them here?" Marco growls under his breath.

Marino shakes his head frantically. "No—no, I was careful, I swear?—"

The front door slams open, and the enforcers step inside, guns drawn.

Panic erupts. Customers scatter, chairs scraping against the floor as people rush toward the back exit. The barista drops to the ground, hands over his head.

Marco stays completely still. He’s calculating something.

The Lombardi men don’t even glance at us.

Their guns are aimed directly at Marino.

And that’s when I realize?—

This isn’t a warning.

This is an execution.

Before I can scream, the Lombardi enforcers move with terrifying precision, their weapons locked onto Marino. The café erupts into chaos—screams, the screech of chairs against tile, the dull thud of bodies hitting the floor as terrified customers dive for cover.

But all I feel is Marco.

His arm comes around me, yanking me against his chest, his body a wall of solid muscle as he shields me from the impending line of fire.

Then—

Bang.

The first shot shatters the air, deafening in the enclosed space.

Marco doesn’t hesitate. In one fluid motion, he pulls his gun from the holster beneath his jacket and fires back. The sharp, mechanical crack of the bullet cuts through the chaos, and one of the enforcers drops before he even has time to register what hit him.

Everything is a blur of heat, adrenaline, the overwhelming scent of gunpowder.

Marino stumbles backward, eyes wide with pure, unfiltered terror. He bolts, making a break for the door, but it’s too late.

A second Lombardi gunman takes aim?—

Bang.

Marino jerks violently as the bullet rips through him. His knees buckle, his body crumpling onto the pavement just outside the café.

I gasp, but there’s no time to react, no time to scream or howl or cry.

Marco is already moving.

He pivots, firing another shot. It catches the second enforcer in the chest, sending him crashing into a table, shattering glass and ceramic in his fall.

There’s one left.

The last Lombardi gunman raises his weapon?—

Bang.

A single shot.

A perfect, lethal hit.

The man staggers, eyes blown wide, before collapsing in a graceless heap.

Silence.

A heavy, suffocating silence.

The acrid scent of gunpowder lingers in the air, mingling with the bitter aroma of spilled coffee and something metallic. My pulse pounds against my skull, the world tilting beneath me as I stare at the wreckage, at the bodies—at Marino.

He’s still, motionless, a dark stain spreading beneath him on the ground.

Oh, God.

I open my mouth—to speak, to breathe—but before I can find my voice, Marco grips my wrist, yanking me toward him.

"We have to go. Now."

My feet barely keep up as he drags me outside, toward the curb where his black Maserati is parked. His grip is unyielding, forged like steel, every movement sharp, efficient, ruthless.

The second he throws the car door open, I scramble inside, my hands shaking as I buckle myself in. Now I realize, this whole meeting has been in vain. I didn’t even get the thumb drive from Marino. He was still holding it when the attackers arrived.

Marco slams the driver’s side door shut.

The tires screech against the pavement as he peels away from the curb, speeding into the dark streets of Nuova Speranza.

For a moment, all I can hear is my own breathing—ragged, uneven.

Then I glance at Marco.

His jaw is clenched so tight it could crack. His knuckles are white against the steering wheel, veins popping beneath the skin. His entire body is taut, vibrating with fury, with barely restrained violence.

I lick my lips, trying to steady my voice. "Marco, I?—"

"Do you have any idea what you’ve done?"