Page 77 of The Underboss's Secret Twins
A muscle tics in his jaw. "You don’t know what you’re asking of me."
I shake my head, my fingers trembling as I wrap my arms around myself. "If this life destroys who you are, then what good is anything? What good is a future if I have to live every day wondering whether one of the bullets you fire will find it’s way back to your own skull?"
He stills.
I can see the battle in his eyes, the war raging inside him between who hewantsto be and the man standing in front of me now—the one with blood on his hands, with the weight of an empire pressing down on his shoulders.
For a moment, I think I’ve gotten through to him.
Then his expression hardens.
His shoulders roll back, his stance shifting, and when he speaks, his voice is steel.
"This is my world, Sofia," he says, slow and deliberate, like he’s making sure I understand every single word. "What did youthinkI do for a living? Push papers? Run a goddamn charity?"
I flinch, but he doesn’t stop.
"If you can’t make peace with it, you’re in for a world of pain."
His words slam into me like a punch to the gut.
Ican’tmake peace with it.
I don’t think I ever will.
Marco steps closer, his presence suffocating, his voice softer now, but no less deadly. "Ican’tjust let this go. I have to protect what’s mine. Even if that means being someone you might not recognize."
His words settle like lead in my stomach.
Someone I might not recognize.
Someone who could do this—who could kill, who could execute a man in cold blood, who could make a decision in the span of a heartbeat that ends a life.
And I love him.
God help me, I love him.
But I don’t know if I can live like this.
The edges of my vision blur, the room tilting, my head light, my body suddenly, violently rejecting everything I’ve just witnessed.
A wave of nausea crashes over me, swift and brutal.
I turn on my heel, needing to get out, needingair, needingspace?—
But I don’t make it.
The sickness claws up my throat, tearing through me too fast to stop it.
Before I can reach the door, I vomit.
20
SOFIA
The world tilts, pressing in too fast, too sharp.
I brace a hand against the doorframe, sucking in air, but it does nothing to steady the nausea still churning inside me. My throat burns, the acrid taste of bile clinging to my tongue, and the humiliation of it—of losing control like that, of breaking apart in front of Marco—lodges itself deep in my ribs.
