Page 6 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
I had wanted to slap him. Or kiss him.
Which only made memorefurious.
The way they had spoken about my best friend Valentina—like she was some pawn in their endless game—had made my blood boil.
Luca had strong-armed Valentina into marriage, using her father’s debts, racked up from a lifetime of drowning in liquor, as leverage.
But somewhere along the way, he’d grown to care for her. If you could call the possessive fire burning in his eyescaring.
What he was doing—constantly second-guessing her, tightening his grip—would only push her further away. And yet, like most men drunk on their own arrogance, he couldn’t see that. I had told him, plainly, that if he wanted to keep her, he had torespecther.
But Luca was an asshole. As most men are.
So, naturally, I didn’t expect him to listen. If he did…good for them. If he didn’t, I’d find a way to help Valentina out of this mess.
But that also meant I needed to be there when she’d need me. And she needs me tonight.
So, here I am, about to step into their world, wearing their colors, drinking their champagne, and smiling at their associates as if I belong.
I give myself one last once-over in the mirror, taking in the woman staring back at me.
I smile because I look untouchable, dangerous.
Because if nothing else, I’m going to make damn sure that Luca and Marco Salvatore regret ever telling me to stay out of their business. Reaching for my clutch, I curl my fingers around the smooth leather.
I’m going to attend the gala and have a good time. If anything, I could get some valuable information on the Lombardis and also how the crime families of Nuova Speranza work.
Luca Salvatore and his insufferable, egotistic brother can go to hell.
I have no intention of leaving Valentina alone, no matter how many times they storm into my home like they own the ground I stand on. And I certainly won’t let them dictate where I go or who I speak to. If anything, tonight is an opportunity—one I refuse to waste.
By the time I reach the Salvatore estate, the gala is already a living, breathing thing—laughter and clinking glasses spilling from its heart like a spell cast over the night. The estate itself looms ahead, a temple to excess, its limestone façade bathed in the decadent glow of chandeliers spilling light through soaring arched windows.
Beyond the grand entrance, the grounds stretch like a dream woven from wealth, where moonlight kisses perfectly sculpted hedges, and fountains murmur in liquid sighs. The scent of night-blooming jasmine coils through the air, clinging likewhispered promises. A procession of sleek black cars lines the winding driveway, their polished surfaces catching the estate’s golden light—silent, gleaming totems of the power gathered within.
Stepping through the carved wooden doors, I am greeted by the scent of aged whiskey and polished mahogany.
Stings of soft conversation unfurl like a well-rehearsed symphony, seamlessly interwoven with the crystalline chime of champagne flutes and the languid strains of a string quartet nestled in the far corner of the ballroom.
Men in bespoke suits, their laughter thick and indulgent and impossibly grating, hold court over glasses of bourbon, while women draped in designer gowns smile with perfect poise, their diamonds catching the candlelight like tiny, lethal weapons.
The power in the room is tangible, a force that curls around my skin like a velvet noose.
These are the architects of Nuova Speranza’s underbelly—the men who dictate the rules of the city from behind closed doors, laundering their sins beneath layers of tailored silk and carefully practiced charm.
I don’t belong in their world.
And yet, I move through it with ease, my smile confident and knowing as I exchange pleasantries with men who feign ignorance of just how much blood stains the fortunes they flaunt.
Influential politicians weave through the crowd, their laughter curated, their words careful. Congressman Mark Ellison lingers by the cigar cart, all silver hair and self-importance, pretending not to notice the envelope slipped into his pocket. Councilwoman Renee Caldwell chats with a hedge fund exec’s wife, her smile polished, her voting record for sale to the highest bidder. District Attorney Alan Pierce sips bourbonlike it’s communion, his eyes always moving, calculating which of tonight’s hosts will need protecting next.
They don’t represent the city. They manage it for the men who already own it.
Deals are being made tonight, alliances forged over expensive whiskey and plates of food so light and delicate they barely take up room in the stomach. I’m not naive enough to believe I can change any of it in a single evening, but information is power, and I’m here to collect as much of it as I can.
And then, I see Marco Salvatore.
He stands near the open terrace doors, the city lights like a million fireflies behind him, but it’s him that steals the air from the room.
