Page 31 of Surprise Twins for the Mafia Prince
Is he thinking of our child and the kind of life they might have?
I can’t imagine it being anything like my life. Alessio was right about the money and power that Dario has. I hope that it ensures my child has a good life.
“But I have to point out that your dad made a big mistake when he stole from my family.”
I flinch, but his hands on my body keep me from moving away.
“Just listen,” he says. “Everyone knows that crossing the mafia is a death sentence, and your dad knew that better than most if he worked for us, even as an accountant. It sounds to me like he took a great risk and it didn’t pay off.”
“Are you kidding me?” I snap. “You’re blaming my father for dying?”
“And for what happened to you afterward. He knew who he was dealing with. He had to know that he’d face consequences if he was caught. What if he’d robbed a bank and the police arrested him? Would you blame them for that when he knew what theconsequences of his actions would be? Or would you recognize that he’s the one at fault for committing the crime?”
“The Andrettis aren’t the police, and he wasn’t locked up behind bars. He was brutally murdered.”
Dario doesn’t argue the point, but my mind is racing as we lay in silence for a long time. I don’t want to even consider that he has a point. I’ve spent fifteen years of my life with the firm belief that the Andrettis are all evil monsters, entirely responsible for the demise of the parents I loved and the destruction of my life.
I’ve only recently started to think that Dario might be the one Andretti I can tolerate, but trying to see the others as anything but evil is more than I can handle right now. I’m not ready to even consider that yet.
Despite that, I can feel some of my anger shifting toward my father for the first time ever. Dario has a point. No matter how much I want to believe otherwise, I know that my father wasn’t entirely a victim. My change of thinking feels significant, like it just might change my future.
14
DARIO
Days bleed together,and I’m surprised how easily I’ve grown used to having Paige inhabit my space. I’ve always been a solitary creature, built for isolation, accustomed to the vast emptiness of privacy that even as a child I craved. I thought having someone constantly in my territory would make my skin crawl.
Instead, it’s fucking intoxicating to come home to someone. My apartment is all sharp edges and cold surfaces. I’ve always appreciated that clinical detachment. But with her here, I’m starting to see how hollow it is, how the place echoes with absence. I didn’t pick a single damn piece of furniture myself, just threw money at the problem and let some overpriced designer curate my life. She did a professional job, but there was no soul in it. Having Paige here only highlights how impersonal everything is, how empty.
She’s carved out her own existence here over these past days, and I’ve learned about her by watching, cataloging every detail like I’m preparing for war.
I know she can only tolerate dry toast in the mornings because pregnancy has made her body betray her. I know she devours horror novels like air, curled up on my couch with her feet tucked beneath her. I know she maintains that delectable body—the one I can’t stop thinking about when I should be focused on business—by doing yoga when she thinks I’m not paying attention.
During the day, she hunches over her laptop, fingers flying as she does her medical transcriptionist work. It pays her bills, but her eyes go dull when she talks about it. It’s a means to an end for her, not a passion. I still don’t know where her true fire lies.
One thing’s certain. She hates being caged, even in a gilded one. I still have someone watching her every moment I’m gone. We might have relieved some tension between us by fucking—and Christ, what a relief it was—but neither of us is stupid enough to trust the other. My men text me throughout the day, updating me on her movements, her afternoon walks, or going out to lunch.
After that first day, I hired a personal chef to stock the place with meals designed for pregnant women. I have no clue what they’re allowed to eat, but judging by the variety crammed into my freezer, the restrictions aren’t as severe as I’d thought. All I have to do is follow the little notecards attached to each meal. It’s the first time my kitchen has seen actual use since I moved in. Patience for cooking is just one more thing I lack, so I tend to eat out a lot.
At least, that’s how it was before Paige. Before, my days were a march from one obligation to the next. Put in time at one of the family’s legitimate businesses, then handle the messier aspects of our less legal ventures. Eat out somewhere expensive and anonymous. Come home late to empty rooms. Now, I’m findingmyself cutting meetings short, delegating tasks I’d normally handle myself, all so I can be home earlier to eat with her.
Whether we trust each other or not, I crave being near her. Those foreign emotions that led me to drag her here in the first place are growing stronger.
Today, I met with Detective Gary Moore from the white-collar crimes division. The man was practically salivating when I handed over the information I had about Kozlov blackmailing and bribing the gaming commission, and I know he’s going to move on it quickly.
I’ve just left his office when Matteo’s text comes through. He’s been watching Paige today, and they’ve ended up at some art show in the park. I’m done with business for the day, so I text back for the location and have my driver reroute. Ten minutes later, we’re there.
The park is swarming with people milling between white pop-up tents, each one housing various pieces of art on display. I order my driver to wait and step out. Matteo’s tall enough that I spot him easily, even in the thick crowd. As I draw closer, I see Paige, and something tightly coiled at the base of my skull begins to unwind. I always carry my stress in my neck, but when Paige spots me and her lips curve into a small grin, I feel lighter somehow, as if the weight’s been briefly lifted. For now.
I try to remind myself that even if she’s telling the truth about the baby, she doesn’t want to be with me. I’m the heir to the Andretti crime family, which she despises. More than that, I know I’m broken in ways that make me impossible to love. There are jagged pieces inside me that cut anyone who gets too close.
I might feel something for her, but it’s better if I don’t even think about acting on it.
Still, I lean in and brush my lips against her cheek when I reach her. She doesn’t flinch away, which I count as a victory.
“You can go,” I tell Matteo, and he doesn’t make me repeat myself, simply nods and melts into the crowd.
“So, you enjoy art?” I ask, finding I’m genuinely curious about her answer. I can’t remember the last time I cared what anyone thought about anything.
