Page 43 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
Then—
"You," he continues, voice smooth as silk, "are just a pawn in his game."
The words sink in like broken glass pressed to flesh, slowly and with great passion, like the speakerneedsthem to hurt. He watches me closely, looking for cracks, waiting for the moment my resolve fractures.
Marco wouldn’t betray me. Would he?
He told me to stay put. He said he was busy. But the way he answered that call in the car, the way his voice had carried that sharp edge of impatience, as if he recognized the man speaking to him?—
I clamp down on the thought before it can spread like poison.
"Marco isn’t playing a game," I say, my voice steadier now. "He’ll come for me."
The man lets out a slow exhale, like he’s disappointed I’m not breaking fast enough. He adjusts his cuffs, shaking his head slightly. "You think he’s rescuing you out of the goodness of his heart?" He leans in again, close enough that I catch the faint scent of stale cigarettes clinging to his clothes. "No, Sofia. He’s doing it because heneedsyou. Because you’re useful."
I don’t respond.
Because IknowMarco.
Don’t I?
"He needs to prove his loyalty," the man continues, his voice turning almost gentle, as if he’s letting me in on some dark secret. "He needs to show everyone he’s still in control. But once he has what he wants…" He trails off, his lips curving into something that’s not quite a smile. "Do you really think he’ll keep you safe? Or will he hand you over to whoever’s offering the highest price?"
A sliver of doubt snakes up my spine.
Because Ihaveseen the darkness in Marco. I’ve watched him make cold, calculated decisions. I’ve seen what he’s willing to do when someone threatens the family. When someone becomes a problem.
And what am I, if not a problem?
The man leans in, his voice a whisper now. "You’ve seen what he’s capable of, haven’t you?"
Memories flash like lightning across my mind—Marco’s hands bloodied from a man who crossed him, the sharp snap of a bone breaking beneath his grasp, the flat, detached look in his eyes as he pulled the trigger of a gun.
The warmth I see in him, the man who has always pulled me back from the edge, is tangled with the man who iscapable of anything.
The man who told me to stay put.
The man who wasbusy.
The man who, for all I know,knew this was coming.
I shake my head, clenching my fists, nails digging into my palms.
No.
This is what theywant.
They want to unravel me, to slip inside my head and lace it with doubt, planting their words like landmines so that by the time Marco comes—if he comes—I won’t know whether to run into his arms or claw my way out of them, and the man sees it, the hesitation that flickers too fast to hide, the way my breath catches just slightly in my throat. And that’s when I know I’m in trouble, because it doesn’t matter that I’m tied to this chair, wrists aching, the fabric damp with sweat where it bites into my skin. It doesn’t matter that I’ve said nothing, confessed nothing, because they’re already pulling me apart in the places no one can see, and the worst of it is the way he watches me, not with impatience or pity, but with the cold curiosity of a predator studying prey that hasn’t yet realized it’s already dead.
His cold, pale eyes hold none of the amusement I’ve seen in men who enjoy their cruelty—there’s no pleasure here, no thrill in the way he delivers his words like slow-dripping poison. Thatalmost makes it worse. There’s nothing personal in this. Just cold efficiency.
The worst kind of monster.
I don’t move. I don’t let my body betray the chaos inside me, even as the weight of his words coils in my stomach like a sickness I can’t shake.
"You’re going to see Marco soon enough," he says, standing, his broad frame casting a long, dark shadow over me. "Maybe you’ll even get out alive. But remember what I’ve told you."
The overhead bulb casts uneven light across his face, deepening the hollows beneath his cheekbones, sharpening the cruel curve of his mouth.
