Page 24 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
Which, knowing him, isn’t entirely impossible.
He’s dressed in dark slacks and a fitted navy button-down, sleeves rolled up, forearms tense. His presence is commanding, dangerous in a way that’s subtle, refined. He embodies the kind of danger that doesn’t announce itself but instead lingers in the air, coiled and ready to strike.
His eyes find me instantly, locking on with a heat that’s almost suffocating, like he sees right through me, like he already knows why I’m here.
I fight the urge to fidget, but I can’t stop the way my pulse races under his stare.
Marco approaches the table, sliding into the seat across from me with an effortless grace that only men like him seem to possess. He leans back, fingers drumming against the edge of the table as he studies me, his expression still rife with languid heat.
"You called me in the middle of a meeting," he says, his voice husky.
I clear my throat. "I need a favor."
His brow lifts, just slightly.
I hate how good he looks when he does that.
"You don’t ask for favors," he says, watching me carefully. "You demand them. Or you blackmail people into giving them to you."
I roll my eyes, though this is the least confident I’ve felt doing it. "Charming."
His lips quirk into something that isn’t quite a smirk, but his eyes remain cold.
"Sofia," he says, leaning forward, his elbows resting on the table. "Tell me what the hell is going on."
I hesitate.
Because this is the moment. The moment I tell him, and the moment everything changes.
But before I can answer, the door swings open again, and Enrico Marino steps inside.
Damn it, he looks awful. A shadow of stubble dusts his jaw, rough and unkempt, like he hasn’t had the time—or the will—to shave. His lips are drawn into a tight line, and the deep crease between his brows makes him look older, harder. But it’s his eyes that hit me hardest.
Dressed in a wrinkled button-down and dark jeans, he moves quickly, eyes scanning the café with the kind of nervous energy that makes me queasy. When he spots me, he heads straight for the booth, sliding in beside me without so much as a greeting.
"We don’t have much time," he mutters, his breath smelling faintly of coffee and cigarettes.
Marco stiffens beside me.
I don’t miss the way his entire body shifts—muscles tightening, posture straightening, like he’s preparing for something he can’t quite name yet.
Marino pulls a small USB drive from his pocket and places it on the table, his fingers curling over it protectively. "This is it. The evidence I told you about."
"And what, exactly, is it?" Marco asks, his tone lethally calm.
Marino glances between us. "Surveillance footage. Hours of it. It links the Lombardis to multiple high-profile murders, police payoffs—you name it." His voice drops lower. "If this gets out, it could bring their whole operation down."
Marco’s expression darkens, his jaw clenching as realization dawns. Slowly, his eyes lift to mine.
"You brought me into this without telling me?" he asks, his voice a quiet blade.
I swallow hard.
"I didn’t want to put you in a difficult position," I say quickly, trying to keep my voice steady. "You have your family to think about. If I told you?—"
"You think this is better?" His voice is low, rough. "That you’d rather blindside me?"
I shake my head, trying to push down the frustration bubbling in my chest. "I didn’t have time to argue with you, Marco. This is bigger than?—"
