Page 23 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
I should tell Marco. But Marco swore an oath—to Luca, to his family—to keep me out of this world. It’s the one rule he won’t break, the line he refuses to let me cross. Maybe that’s why we still work, in our own twisted way. Our version of a relationship is anything but clean, anything but simple.
Marco doesn’t want me anywhere near his business. And if he knew what I was about to do, he’d put a bullet in it before I even got the chance.
I can’t let that happen.
"Where do you want to meet?" I ask.
"A small café downtown. Somewhere neutral." Marino hesitates. "I don’t like this, Sofia. If the Lombardis catch wind of what I have, I’m as good as dead."
A shiver runs down my spine. He’s not wrong.
"I’ll be careful," I say, more for my own benefit than his.
"Be smart," he corrects. "I’ll see you in an hour."
The call disconnects.
I exhale slowly, staring at my phone like it might spontaneously combust. The logical part of me—the one that values my life—tells me I should sit this one out. Walk away, pretend I never got that call.
But I’ve never been great at listening to logic.
The other side of my brain—the side that doesn’t give a damn about logic, the side that runs on pure survival instinct—tells me one thing:Go. And don’t go alone.
I need protection. And when it comes to protection, there’s only one name that matters.
With a resigned sigh, I pull up Marco’s number and type out a message before I can talk myself out of it.
Meet me. Urgent.
Three dots appear almost instantly.
Where?
I send him the location of the café and toss my phone onto the table so that doubt won’t sink its claws into me.
This is the right move. Having Marco there ensures my safety. He’s my insurance policy in case things go sideways.
But that’s the thing about insurance policies.
They only work if you tell them what they’re covering.
And right now, Marco has no idea what I’m dragging him into.
The thought presses against my ribs all the way to the cafe. It doesn’t leave, even as I pace the café’s seedy interior, my fingers wrapped around a lukewarm cup of coffee that I have no intention of drinking.
The place is nearly empty, save for a few elderly men playing chess in the back and a barista who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. It’s the kind of café where no one asks questions, where the smell of burned espresso lingers in the air like an old secret.
I settle into a booth near the window, my knee bouncing under the table. It’s been twenty minutes since I sent Marco the message, and even though I know he’ll come, my stomach twists at the thought of what he’ll say when he realizes what I’ve done.
He’ll be pissed.
And honestly? He has every right to be.
I told myself I wasn’t going to involve him—not fully. But the moment Marino called, the moment I realized how deep this could go, I knew I couldn’t do it alone.
Even as I’m thinking, the bell above the café door chimes, and my breath catches.
Marco strides inside like he owns the place.
