Page 38 of Surprise Twins for the Mafia Prince
“And I told you when I came here that I didn’t want to see any damn Andrettis. I didn’t think I had to say this, but that especially applies to your father.”
Dario remains unnervingly calm in the face of my rage. “That was never going to happen.”
“We had a deal!”
“You’re part of the family now, Paige. If that’s my child inside of you, you’ll always be one of us.”
The words hit me like ice water. One of us. As if being an Andretti is something to aspire to. As if belonging to this family of killers and thieves is a privilege instead of a life sentence.
I stare at him across the expanse of mahogany and fine china, and all I can think is; what have I gotten myself into?
18
DARIO
A huge partof being successful in the mafia is having powerful friends. The kind who’ll get their hands dirty when you call. The kind who’ll destroy evidence, look the other way, or put a bullet in someone’s skull. Whether you pay them off or blackmail them to do your bidding, it’s invaluable to be able to place a single phone call and get things done.
In this case, I’ve got my man in the police department on speed dial. He’s only a beat cop, but he’s ambitious, hungry. The kind who’ll climb the ranks—as long as no one discovers he’s fucking his stepsister.
No one knows about his deviant sex life but me. And it’ll stay that way as long as he keeps doing what I ask. By the end of the day, I’ll have Keith Foley’s death report in my hands.
I need to know what really happened. Yesterday, my father dropped a bomb that’s been ticking in my head ever since; the Andrettis didn’t kill Paige’s father. My father has no reason to lie to me about this. So I believe him. But Paige? She’ll need more than words. She’ll need proof.
He did admit he was planning to take the guy out for stealing. But someone beat him to it. That particular detail can stay between me and my father.
With that call handled, I leave my office, already on edge. I can hear the gentle voice of Paige’s yoga video coming from behind her closed door as I pass. The familiar sound teases me, reminding me of how she usually does her exercises in the living room, all long limbs and smooth curves bending into positions that make my cock throb painfully in my pants.
But she’s avoiding me today. Last night, after I told her she’s part of the family, she stormed off to her room like I’d slapped her. No late-night reading while I sketched. No comfortable silence between us. Just the echo of her door slamming.
This morning, she was actually humming to herself when she came downstairs, until she saw me. Her smile vanished like I was the fucking grim reaper. When she learned I was working from home, she retreated to her room for most of the day.
I grind my teeth as I head downstairs. We’ve lost ground. Weeks of progress undone in twenty-four hours. Why does this have to be so complicated? Why couldn’t I have fucked someone else that night? Anyone who doesn’t have the name “Andretti” carved into their list of mortal enemies?
But even as the thought forms, I know it’s bullshit. I wouldn’t trade that night for anything. I want Paige. Not just in my bed, but in my life. I want to claim her as mine. Every perfect inch of her.
Which is why I’m determined to figure out what happened to her father. I don’t just want a baby with her. I want her. All ofher. And that means tearing down the wall between us brick by fucking brick.
But right now, we both need space. I text Alessio to come watch Paige. He bitches about “babysitting duty,” but confirms immediately. That’s family—they complain, but they show up. Alessio might carry his father’s last name instead of ours, but he’s Andretti blood. Paige is safe with him.
The second he arrives, I grab my gym bag and leave without a word to Paige. We both need breathing room. She needs to process her anger, and I need to beat the shit out of something before I explode.
At the gym, I make a beeline for the punching bag after changing into workout clothes. I’m quick on my feet as I circle the bag like it owes me money. My jabs land with enough force to make the guy holding it grunt with each impact. I don’t give a fuck. I hammer the bag for nearly an hour until my knuckles are raw and bleeding. Then I hit the treadmill, pushing until sweat drips from every pore.
It’s not until I’m in the shower, water cascading over my aching muscles, that I realize what I’m really doing—punishing myself. I close my eyes and see Paige’s face from last night, the pain etched there as she described how her father died. I pushed her to relive that trauma. I needed to know, but I feel like a bastard for hurting her.
No amount of physical punishment will change that. Maybe booze will do the trick. What I really want is to go home and pick up where we left off in the kitchen yesterday. I want to taste her again, feel her heat wrapped around my cock, pump my release into her until we’re both gasping.
I’m still lost in that fantasy as I turn off the shower and dress, distracted by visions of Paige moaning beneath me.
That’s how the two men waiting in the parking lot get the jump on me.
I drove myself today—a rare occurrence—and I’m heading for my SUV when movement flickers in my peripheral vision. Someone crouching between vehicles to my right. A cold tingle shoots down my spine, and adrenaline floods my system, every nerve ending suddenly screaming.
I’m so focused on that guy, I miss the second one coming from my left until his fist connects with my jaw. The impact makes my head snap back, and I stagger, dropping my gym bag. But I recover fast. My fists come up as the asshole moves in for another swing. I block his punch and drive my knuckles into his gut as the second guy rushes toward us.
I pivot, grabbing the newcomer by the shoulders and shoving him backward into his friend. They collide and go down like something out of a cartoon. It would be funny if I wasn’t so fucking furious.
No one attacks me. I’m the heir to the Andretti empire. I’ve been fighting since I was a kid, and I don’t hold back. I don’t show mercy.
