Page 75 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
Then a crash. Not an accident. Glass, by the sound of it, and not from a hand that slipped. Thrown. Smashed. The kind ofsound that used to mean a bottle in the alley, a warning before the blade.
The warmth I carried from the last room drains out of me, quick and clean, replaced by cold dread. Something I haven’t shaken since the day Marino died because of my foolishness. I pick up my pace. The steps echo underfoot, concrete and tension carrying me toward the noise. The voices are clearer now—clipped, frantic, too fast to be controlled. This isn’t an argument anymore. This is the moment after control has been lost, when pride slips and something uglier takes its place. The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. Then?—
A gunshot.
The sound rips through the mansion like a lightning strike, freezing me in place for half a breath before my body reacts on instinct. Irun.
The hallway blurs as I shove forward, reaching the heavy door and pushing it open with both hands.
And suddenly, I’m inside a nightmare.
The stench of gunpowder clings to every surface, curling into the unseen spaces between shadows. Blood paints the floor in jagged strokes, deep crimson spreading in slow, creeping pools beneath bodies that will never rise again. Some men groan, their pain twisting through the silence like a dying prayer. Others lie still.
And in the center of it all is Marco.
He stands with terrifying stillness, his body loose but charged, like a predator that has already decided the kill is inevitable.
A gun rests steady in his grip, the barrel still smoking.
Antonio Mancini is backed into a corner, his chest rising and falling in uneven bursts, his temple slick with blood. His gaze flickers to the bodies on the floor, then back to Marco, his expression a war between fear and defiance.
Marco tilts his head, slow, assessing.
"You thought you could undermine me, Mancini?" His voice is quiet, but lethal, each syllable a loaded chamber.
Mancini swallows. His fists clench at his sides. He doesn’t answer.
Marco takes a step closer. The gun doesn’t waver.
"You should have known better."
He raises the gun, leveling it at Mancini’s head.
My body pushes forward on instinct. The second Marco lifts his gun, the second his finger tightens on the trigger, I shove forward, placing myself between him and Mancini. "Marco,stop!"
My voice shakes, but it says everything I can’t put into words. Everything that has been haunting me since witnessing Marino die.
For a heartbeat, no one breathes. I stare up at him, my chest heaving, my pulse hammering so hard it drowns out every other sound. Marco’s gaze locks onto mine, his expression black with rage. The deadly intent behind it terrifies me.
This isn’t the man who held me last night, whispering promises against my skin. This isn’t the man who touched me like I was something sacred, who kissed me like he was drowning and I was his only breath.
This is the ruthless underboss, the cold executioner.
And I don’t recognize him. "Marco,please," I whisper, my voice raw. "You don’t have to do this."
His jaw flexes. His eyes flick to mine, searching, burning.
Then—
A sudden movement.
Mancini takes his chance.
He lunges for the door, knocking over a table in his path, sending a stack of papers and a whiskey glass crashing to thefloor. The sound shatters the momentary trance between Marco and me.
Rage flashes in his eyes, and before I can stop him, he shoves me aside. "Marco?—!"
The gun goes off.
