Page 144 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
For me.
The weight of realization crashes into me.
Vittorio Lombardi is inside.
He must have been informed that I was heading for the villa, and now, he’s looking for me.
I press a hand to my stomach, my breath shallow.
I have to find Marco.
Before Vittorio findsme.
37
MARCO
Itake another step forward, my boots pressing into a pool of blood. The Lombardi soldier at my feet gurgles his last breath before his body goes slack, his gun slipping from lifeless fingers. Another man down. Another step closer to wiping them from this city.
Gunfire rattles through the villa, reverberating off the marble walls and high ceilings, the sheer force of it turning this place into a war zone. My men push forward, moving like a tide, sweeping through the hallways, flushing out Lombardi strongholds one by one. The scent of gunpowder clings thick to the air, mixing with something else—something acrid and metallic. Blood, smoke, death.
The Lombardis are still fighting, but their defenses are faltering, their men falling back, scrambling, desperate. They know their time is running out.
But something gnaws at me, a weight pressing against my chest.
Something iswrong.
I’ve been in enough battles to recognize when an enemy is truly backed into a corner. They should be throwing everythingthey have at us. Fighting like animals. But instead, they’re stalling, their defenses oddly positioned, their movements too calculated. As if they’re not trying to win—they’re just trying to keep us here.
I push the thought down. Vittorio Lombardi is mine tonight.
A burst of gunfire lights up the corridor ahead, and I duck, pressing myself against the wall as bullets rip through the air.
"Boss! We’re pushing them back!" Silva shouts over the chaos, his voice hoarse.
"Keep moving," I order, shifting my grip on my gun. "We take this house tonight."
I press forward, my men at my back, my focus razor-sharp. The Lombardi villa is a maze—lavish hallways filled with grotesque paintings, chandeliers still swaying from the concussive force of grenades and gunfire, staircases that lead to nowhere, all designed to confuse, to mislead.
I don’t care.
Vittorio is somewhere inside, and I will find him.
Then, my phone vibrates.
I almost ignore it. But something stops me—something cold and unshakable, the same feeling that’s been clawing at me all night.
I pull it out, keeping my gun raised, my focus split as I glance at the screen.
It’s Sofia.
My stomach tightens.
I press the phone to my ear. "Sofia?"
Static.
Then—her voice, strained, frantic, barely cutting through the interference.
