Page 124 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
Valentina smiles, something knowing in her eyes. "MarcoisNuova Speranza, just like Luca and Dante. And, for better or worse…you are his."
I lower my gaze to my half-empty plate, tracing a finger absently against the rim. The room holds its silence gently, broken only by the soft, rhythmic ticking of the clock and the distant murmur of life beyond these walls. Voices drift in and out, half-formed and weightless, footsteps whisper against marble, a quiet rhythm to a world that moves endlessly forward, never truly resting, never truly still.
Valentina sighs and reaches for my hand, giving it a squeeze. "I should check on Leo before bed," she says gently, as if she senses I need space to process everything she’s just laid at my feet.
I nod, grateful.
She rises, gathering the dishes with practiced ease. "Eat a little more," she says, nodding toward my plate. "For the baby."
I manage a small smile, one she returns before heading toward the doorway. She hesitates just before leaving, her hand resting lightly against the frame. "Marco will be back soon."
It’s a statement, not a question. Not a guess.
She knows, just as I do, that he’ll always come back to me.
Then she’s gone, her footsteps fading into the hall.
I sit there for a while, staring at the candlelit space around me, at the remnants of dinner, at the glass of water in front of me that I suddenly can’t bring myself to drink.
Finally, I push away from the table, my body sore and heavy, and make my way toward the grand windows overlooking the gardens. The night sprawls endlessly before me, a vast expanse of inky darkness, thick with shifting shadows that stretch and curl like unseen specters. The wind weaves through the trees, rustling their branches in a low, conspiratorial whisper, carrying the scent of damp earth and the lingering chill of the evening.
Then—low and distant—a car engine growls.
A low heat unfurls in my stomach, climbing up my neck, into the very recesses of my mind.
I don’t move. I wait, heart pounding in a slow, precarious rhythm. The headlights cut across the driveway, the engine purring low as the car pulls to a stop.
The door opens.
Marco steps out.
Even from here, I can see the exhaustion lining his face, the weight of the day hanging from his shoulders like a cloak. His movements are fluid but sharp, controlled in the way of a man who has seen too much, done too much, and isn’t ready to let his guard down just yet.
He’s back.
And, for once, I know what to do with the relief that floods through me. When he’s nearer, I begin running. I don’t stop until he’s holding me in his arms.
32
MARCO
Sofia’s breath is warm against my neck as I lift her effortlessly into my arms, her body molding against mine as if she belongs there. Maybe she does. Maybe she always has. Her arms slip around my shoulders, her fingers curling into the fabric of my shirt as I carry her out of the dimly lit hallway and toward my bedroom.
The house is silent around us, the heavy walls muffling the world outside, trapping us in this moment, in this charged, electric space where nothing exists except her body pressed to mine and the steps I take toward the inevitable.
She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t have to. Her body tells me everything I need to know. The way she clings to me, the way her legs tighten slightly around my waist, the way her breath hitches when I shift her higher against my chest—she’s just as caught up in this as I am, just as helpless against this pull, this relentless gravity between us.
When we reach my bedroom, I push the door open with my shoulder, stepping inside before kicking it shut behind me. The room is dimly lit, the soft glow from the bedside lamp casting golden pools of light across the dark, sprawling space.
The massive bed dominates the room, its sleek black sheets already rumpled from nights spent without her, from restless sleep haunted by the idea of her, the feel of her. But now, she’s here, and I have no intention of letting her slip away again.
I walk to the bed, lowering her slowly, letting her body slide down mine so that she feels every inch of me, every hard, aching part of me that’s been waiting for this. She gasps softly as she lands against the sheets, her body sinking into them, her silver eyes heavy-lidded as she watches me.
I take my time, letting my gaze roam over her, drinking her in. She’s still dressed, but not for long.
"You know," I murmur, my fingers tracing the curve of her waist as I lean over her, "I’ve been imagining this for a long time."
She exhales a shaky breath, her fingers tightening in the sheets. "Have you?"
