Page 66 of The Underboss's Secret Twins

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She gives me a skeptical look, looping her arms around my neck. "You cook now?"

I grin, carrying her effortlessly through the doorway. "You’ll see."

It’s very late when we step outside the room. The estate is sleeping, wrapped in the illusion of grandeur—a place where opulence and danger exist in a delicate, unspoken balance.

At night, the sharp edges of its power soften, giving way to something almost serene. The air sings with quiet authority, the kind that lingers in the bones of old houses, in the stories woven into stone and timber, in the whispered legacies of the men who have ruled from behind these walls.

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The soft glow of the wall sconces casts elongated silhouettes against polished marble, flickering as we pass, their golden light licking up the towering columns that frame the corridor. The floors gleam beneath the dim lighting, the veined stone cool underfoot, stretching outward like the arteries of something ancient and alive.

Outside, the estate grounds sprawl into the darkness, acres of land meticulously maintained, every tree, every hedge standing like silent sentinels. The main drive snakes through the property, lined with iron lanterns whose glow barely touches the thick canopy above.

Beyond the courtyard, where the fleet of black SUVs are parked in perfect formation, the gardens extend into a labyrinth of stone paths, fountains, and ivy-covered archways, their beauty a stark contrast to the ruthless men who walk these halls.

Inside, the weight of history clings to every surface—the towering bookshelves filled with leather-bound tomes, the grand staircase sweeping up to the upper floors like something out of an old-world painting. Heavy chandeliers drip from the ceilings, their crystals refracting the low light, casting fractured prisms along the ornate moldings. Gilded mirrors reflect fleeting glimpses of movement, making the estate feel both empty and watched all at once.

It’s a different world at night—emptier, almost peaceful. But that peace is deceptive. Beneath the quiet, power thrums like a second heartbeat, hidden in the shadows, waiting.

Sofia tilts her head, taking it in. The silence, the space, the weight of a place that was built for power.

"It looks…different like this," she murmurs.

I nod, shifting her slightly in my arms.

"When it’s full, it feels like a kingdom," I admit. "Empty like this?" I exhale. "It just feels haunted."

Her fingers tighten slightly against my shirt as if she understands.

I carry her through the hall, past darkened rooms, past the echoes of whispered conversations that still linger in these walls.

Finally, we reach the kitchen.

It’s nothing like the rest of the house.

Where the rest of the estate is a temple of cold marble and ruthless elegance, the kitchen is something else entirely—a heart still beating within the bones of power. Dark wood cabinets stretch high, their carved edges rich with old-world craftsmanship, framing walls lined with aged copper pots that catch the low, golden light.

A heavy stone island stands at the center, its veined surface worn smooth by time, an altar where hands have worked, where knives have sliced through flesh—some meat, some not. A deep farmhouse sink gleams beneath an arched window, where the city sprawls out beyond iron grates, glittering like a distant kingdom.

At the far end, is a wooden table—long, wide, built for generations of men who rule and the women who outlive them—bears the weight of half-drunk wine bottles and forgotten glasses.