Page 135 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
I blink. "Fighting what?"
She gives me a look over her shoulder. "Happiness."
I let out a short laugh, but there’s no humor in it. "Happiness? Val, I don’t even know what that looks like anymore."
She turns off the heat, setting the spoon aside, and walks over to sit across from me. "You think I didn’t feel the same way?"
I shake my head. "It’s different for you. You—you’ve found your place here. I spent years running from it."
She folds her arms on the counter. "And look where that got you."
I scowl. "Wow. Thanks."
She smirks. "I’m serious, Sofia. You ran. You hid. You built a life for yourself outside of this, outside of Marco. And still, you ended uphere. With him. Carrying his child."
I don’t respond.
She tilts her head. "So maybe the question isn’t whether you can survive in Marco’s world. Maybe it’s whether you can survive withouthim."
A lump rises in my throat, unexpected and unwelcome.
I push the plate away.
Valentina sighs. "Sofia…"
"I don’t know how to do this," I whisper. The words slip out before I can stop them.
She reaches across the counter, squeezing my hand. "You don’t have to."
I frown. "What do you mean?"
She shrugs. "You think I have all the answers? That I magically figured out how to be a mafia wife, how to raise a son in this world? I didn’t. Idon’t."
Her voice softens. "You don’t have to have all the answers, Sofia. You just have tochoose."
I stare at her.
Marco’s words echo in my mind.
Stay. Stay and let me protect you.
I look down at my stomach, pressing my palm lightly over the barely-there swell.
Maybe I’ve already made my choice.
I just don’t know how to say it yet.
The fear and tension from the day’s events have left me on edge, but beneath it all, I feel a growing sense of attachment to Marco. I try to push the thoughts away—after all, our relationship is complicated, and the life I’m carrying adds another layer of complexity.
That’s the thought that lingers, pressing against the edges of my mind as I sit in the quiet of the estate, tension coiling inside me like a tightly wound spring. I try to push it away, but it stays—persistent, gnawing, impossible to ignore.
The minutes stretch into hours, and still, there’s no word from Marco.
I leave the kitchen, only to pace the living room, arms crossed tightly over my chest, my fingers gripping at the fabric of my sleeves. Valentina watches from the doorway, her gaze unreadable.
"You’re going to wear a hole in the floor," she finally says.
I stop and shake my head. "I can’t just sit here and do nothing."
