Page 37 of Surprise Twins for the Mafia Prince
But I can’t think about that right now because this dinner is nothing like the ones I’ve started to enjoy with him. The quiet in the room is stifling.
Something is hanging over both of us, and it feels more profound than a surprise visit from his father, but maybe that’s a good place to start trying to figure things out.
I know enough about the mafia to be sure that he won’t tell me what business his father came by to discuss, and I’m not sure I want to know anyway, but something changed with him when Lorenzo was here.
“So...” My voice cracks embarrassingly, and I gulp down water to recover. Dario’s eyes snap to mine, dark and intense. “What’s wrong?”
He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t fidget. Just stares at me with that unreadable expression before dropping a bomb.
“What can you tell me about your father’s death?”
My fork clatters against the plate. That might be the last thing I expected him to ask about.
“Excuse me?” The words scrape out of my throat.
“I want to know exactly how he died.”
Heat flushes my face, anger rising so fast it makes me dizzy. “Why? Is this some kind of sick joke?”
My face feels warm as sharp anger rises within me. He could ask his father this question to save me the pain of reliving it, but he asks me instead. And why does he want to know the gory details, anyway?
“Humor me. I want to know exactly what happened.”
“Your father had him killed,” I snap, shoving my plate away. The topic of discussion has killed my appetite.
“Please, Paige.”
That single word—please—stops me cold. In the short time I’ve known Dario Andretti, I’ve learned that he doesn’t ask. He takes. He commands. He expects. But he doesn’t say please.
I exhale slowly, the fight draining out of me. “He was shot in his car in the parking lot of his accounting firm.”
The words taste like ash in my mouth, but I continue.
“By then, he was working exclusively for your family, but he kept the firm for appearances. One night, he was leaving later than usual—around ten. Someone came up to the car and shot him through the driver’s side window.”
My throat constricts. I can see it happening in my mind’s eye, a horror movie I’ve watched a thousand times.
“Five shots. Chest and face.” I have to pause, collecting the fractured pieces of myself. “Afterward, his car was doused in gasoline and set on fire.”
“Was there any security footage? Any cameras on buildings nearby?”
I narrow my eyes, suddenly suspicious. “No. Nothing like that.”
“So, how do you know what happened?”
“The police had plenty of evidence to put the story together, even though my father’s body was charred beyond recognition,” I say, ice creeping into my voice. “I can’t believe you’re making me relive this. What game are you playing?”
“But without footage, how did you know my family was responsible?”
I take a deep breath, hoping it will steady me. It doesn’t. My voice rises with each word.
“Who the hell else would murder him? He worked for a group of criminals that are known for doing dramatic shit to prove a point. And boy, did they. Not just killing him but burning away what remained so that we couldn’t even have an open casket.”
My chest heaves as long-buried emotions claw their way to the surface.
“We didn’t understand why at first, after years of working for your family. But when mom went through his things, she discovered records he’d kept of his theft. So, that’s how we know.”
I shove my chair back with enough force that it nearly topples over, tossing my napkin onto the table.
