Page 34 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
I jerk my head toward the voice, not caring that I can’t see him. Every muscle in my body is wired, my instincts shrieking at me to fight, to move, to do something—anything—before I disappear into the dark forever.
The man on my right shifts, the seat creaking under his weight. I can feel his presence—too close, heat radiating from his body like a warning.
"She’s a real pain in the ass," he mutters.
A second voice, rougher, older, chuckles from the front. "What did you expect? She’s been sniffing around the Lombardis for years. This one’s got a death wish."
A third voice, deeper and quieter, speaks from the driver’s seat. "Shut up. Focus."
I focus, too.
The way the car moves. The turns. The stops and starts.
I try to count them, to map the route in my head, but it’s impossible. The blindfold steals my sense of direction, leaving me drowning in the disorienting sway of the speeding vehicle.
Minutes pass. Maybe more.
The men exchange clipped words, but they mean nothing to me—fragments of conversation lost in the steady hum of the engine. I strain my ears, desperate for details, for anything I can use, but all I catch are vague mentions of "the boss" and "the exchange”.
I shift, my wrists burning against the rough rope as I try to loosen the knots. The bonds are tight, expertly done—whoever tied them knew what they were doing. My fingers are tingling, already starting to go numb.
I inhale through my nose, forcing my pulse to slow.
Think, Sofia.
The blindfold steals my sight, plunging me into darkness, but I have other senses. The scent of cigarette smoke lingers in the car, stale and bitter, mingling with the faint metallic tang of gun oil. The hum of the tires against the road vibrates through the floor beneath my feet. Every slight turn, every acceleration, every shift in weight—I memorize them. I don’t know where they’re taking me, but I won’t be lost in the dark forever.
I flex my fingers, willing sensation back into them. The ropes bite into my wrists, the fibers rough and unyielding, but I don’t stop twisting against them. My breathing is slow, controlled—at least on the outside. Inside, my ribs feel tight, like my lungs are working overtime just to keep up.
Then, a low chuckle breaks through the hum of the car.
"You’re thinking too hard, sweetheart."
The voice is deep. Gravelly. And oddly familiar, which makes it all the more unsettling.
I go still.
Another chuckle. He shifts beside me, the leather seat creaking under his weight.
"I can practically hear the gears turning in that pretty little head of yours," he says, a smirk evident in his tone. "Trying to figure out where we’re going? How this ends?"
I don’t answer. I can’t. The gag muffles anything I might say, and even if it didn’t, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.
Another shift. His presence is too close, his body radiating heat, a slow-burning threat.
"You know," he continues, conversational, almost amused, "I’ve been waiting for this moment for a long time."
My stomach knots.
"Funny, isn’t it?" he muses. "Marco warned you to stay away, and now here you are, right where we want you."
Marco’s name slams into me like a fist to the ribs. The last thing he said to me—stay put—was a warning wrapped in distance, in restraint. He knew danger was coming, but even he couldn’t protect me from it. My bad for bringing this on myself.
I swallow against the gag, my pulse hammering against my throat. The space feels much too cramped, and for a moment, I worry I won’t be able to keep breathing.
The SUV moves like a bullet through the city, eating up the distance between me and wherever the hell they’re taking me. I still can’t see. The blindfold is tight, the fabric thick, and the gag in my mouth makes breathing through my nose a slow, infuriating task.
The man beside me hasn’t spoken again, but his presence is suffocating. I can feel his gaze on me, feel the sick amusement rolling off him in waves. I know him. I can’t place it, but I know him. The familiarity lingers like a phantom touch, setting my nerves on fire.
