Page 41 of Surprise Twins for the Mafia Prince
“You can’t guarantee that.”
Her doubt needles me like a thorn under my skin. Like I’d let anything touch her. Like I wouldn’t burn this whole fucking city to the ground first.
“Look at me, Paige,” I command, holding her gaze. “I take care of what’s mine, and ever since I brought you back here, that includes you.” She starts to argue, but I cut her off. “You might disagree, but if that’s my child inside you, you both belong to me. That means it’s my job to keep you safe. No one will get to you.”
The conviction in my voice surprises even me. I’m not just saying what she needs to hear. I mean every goddamn word. And if I’m wrong? If the Bratva somehow gets to her? I’ll make them wish they were never born.
“Thank you,” Paige says, placing her hand on her belly. I cover it with mine.
I’ve known I was getting attached to her, that she matters in a way I didn’t expect. But it’s not until this moment, with her standing here worried for me, that I recognize the depth of what I’m feeling. It’s more than obligation to a baby that might be mine. It’s more than duty or responsibility.
Paige matters to me. She might hate my family, might distrust me, but I don’t give a fuck. She’s mine.
Three days later, I’m standing outside a warehouse my family has owned for decades. To a casual observer, it’s simply another rundown building with boarded windows and vines climbing the crumbling brick. The grass is dead, the sidewalk cracked. The surrounding buildings are equally decrepit.
It’s camouflage, all of it.
Inside, the place is pristine and organized. We store our product here. Mostly drugs and guns. Tonight, I’m waiting for a delivery of the latter.
I’m on high alert with twice my usual manpower. My father believes the Bratva might try to hit us where it hurts—our business. The weapons shipment arriving tonight will make us serious money, but only if the Russians don’t fuck it up.
“You get an update from the driver?” Matteo asks, lighting a cigarette. It’s a habit he’s picked up and dropped a dozen times over the years.
“Yeah, he reached Vegas ten minutes ago. It’ll take time to navigate here.”
“Any sign of trouble?”
“Not on his end.”
Matteo goes quiet, finishing his cigarette and crushing it under his boot. “How you holding up at home?”
“I’m fine.”
“Dario. It’s me.”
I sigh. Besides Luca, Matteo knows me better than anyone. He’s been my friend since we were kids, and that means something. Especially since I was a fucking train wreck back then.
The day we met, I was ten years old and in the middle of an unfair fight. I might be able to take on multiple opponents now, but back then, I was nothing but a scrawny kid with a chip on my shoulder and a stutter that made me a bullies’ favorite target. Being the Don’s son didn’t matter—kids don’t understand that kind of power.
So I was teased mercilessly. One day, I was cornered on the playground by four older boys. They were bigger, cockier, but I was meaner, determined to prove myself.
But I couldn’t. I was getting my ass handed to me when Matteo appeared. We didn’t know each other, but he saw the odds and didn’t like them. He jumped in with fists flying, and when theteacher caught us, he shared my punishment. During detention, I introduced myself, and we’ve been friends ever since.
“I’m sick of this shit with the Bratva,” I admit, knowing my words won’t leave the two of us. I respect my father too much to question his decisions in front of others. “It’s been a back-and-forth fight for power and territory as long as I can remember. I don’t understand why we haven’t wiped them out. We’re stronger, with more wealth and influence. Vegas doesn’t need two mafias.”
“Maybe not, but if the Bratva falls, wouldn’t we be weakened?”
“What do you mean?”
“We’re a bigger organization, which lets us hold our territory tightly. But rapidly expanding to cover the Bratva’s section, small as it is, would stretch us thin. And if we’re weakened, it opens the door for someone else to claim Vegas. Then we’re right back here, but our enemy is a stranger.”
“So you’re saying it’s better to deal with the devil you know?”
Matteo shrugs. “You know me, I’m not a decision-maker. But a good soldier should try to understand his bosses’ motivations.”
Matteo could be more than a soldier. He could work his way up, become a Capo. He’s not an Andretti, but I trust him with my life.
But he doesn’t want that. Leadership comes with power, but also with responsibility he doesn’t care to shoulder. I get it. Some days, the weight of my future feels like a concrete slab on my chest.
