Page 100 of Surprise Twins for the Mafia Prince
I don’t know what they are, but I hate the sight of them. They look like tiny coffins.
My stomach drops.
“Hello, I’m Dr. Kuran,” a woman with a British accent says, stepping closer. “I’m a neonatologist. I’ll be overseeing your boys’ care once they arrive.”
Paige exhales like she’s been holding her breath for hours. “Thank God.”
“They’ll likely need to spend some time in the NICU,” Dr. Kuran continues, “just until they can regulate their own breathing and body temp. That’s what those incubators are for. But you’ll be able to hold them soon.”
“Wow,” Paige breathes, eyes wide. “That’s…a lot.”
“It is,” Dr. Kuran agrees with a soft smile. “But they’re in good hands.”
I want to ask questions. Demand guarantees. Threaten someone if I have to. But before I can speak, Paige’s next contraction starts.
She moans, low and pained, and crushes my hand in hers. Her nails bite into my skin—and I welcome the sting. At least it’s something I can share with her.
Things move fast after that.
Too fast.
There’s no time for an epidural. I’d kill to take her pain away—literally—but all I can do is hold her hand and whisper encouragement as she starts to push.
Sweat beads on her forehead, and I wipe it away, pressing a kiss to her temple. After each push, she slumps back, whispering that she can’t do it anymore. But then the next contraction’s here, and she tries again.
She pushes through the pain. Through the fear. She pushes until both of our boys are born.
I let out a huge breath. The hard part’s over.
At least…I think it is.
Then I realize something’s wrong.
There’s no crying.
I barely get a glimpse of them—tiny, pink, fragile—before they’re whisked away. The team surrounds them at the far end of the room, too focused to speak, too still.
Dr. Kuran is there, bouncing between both incubators, her face unreadable.
And the silence...the silence is a living thing.
“Are they okay?” Paige asks, her voice cracking.
I don’t have an answer.
I squeeze her hand, trying to be strong, but my throat is tight and my knees are weak.
I don’t pray. Not really. But I start begging—quiet and desperate—pleading with a God I’ve never believed in to give my sons a chance.
I’d give anything. My money, my power, my fucking life. Just let them be okay.
Then—
A cry splits the air.
Sharp, angry.
A second follows, even louder.
