Page 43 of Surprise Twins for the Mafia Prince
I can’t bear to wrestle with that thought right now, so I shove it into the overcrowded closet of my mind and slam the door. Like it or not, he’s the father of my child, so I give myself a little grace when it comes to him.
The rest of the Andrettis can go straight to hell.
“I don’t think we’re going to find an OB working out of a building you’d call secure,” I say, and Dario frowns but doesn’t argue. Progress.
“You stay close by my side, you understand?” he orders, all stern authority.
His bossiness makes me poke him in the ribs like we’re in middle school. “Of course, I understand. It’s not a difficult concept.”
“Paige, this is serious.”
“This is my first appointment with an obstetrician, and I don’t want to be late.”
Dario grumbles something that sounds suspiciously like Italian profanity but opens the car door and steps out. He always insists on exiting first. Some mafia security protocol, I guess. I watch as he scans our surroundings, one hand tucked into his jacket where I know his shoulder holster holds a gun.
After a few seconds of apparent all-clear, he moves aside and extends his hand to help me out. This particular habit has nothing to do with security and everything to do with surprising gentlemanly instincts. Who knew the mafia man would be so old-fashioned?
His hand settles at the small of my back as we enter the building—possessive, protective, warm through the thin fabric of my sundress. There are several practices housed here, so I pause to study the directory in the lobby. Dario stands so close behind me I can feel the heat radiating off his body, a human shield between me and the world.
“Dr. Warren is on the second floor,” I murmur, turning to face him. “Elevator?”
He guides me without a word, his body tense and alert. Full bodyguard mode. But today isn’t only about danger and protection, it’s about our baby. So I take his hand in mine as weride up with another couple. The woman looks ready to pop, her enormous belly preceding her like the prow of a ship.
“That’ll be us someday soon,” I whisper to him as the doors open and we step out.
Dario smirks as his eyes trace the still-flat plane of my stomach. “It’s hard to imagine, especially with the weight you’ve lost.”
I can’t help but laugh. He’s been fretting about that for days like a grandmother with a skinny grandchild. I’ve only shed a couple of pounds—something most men wouldn’t even notice. But Dario Andretti isn’t like most men.
“I’ll gain it back and more,” I assure him, patting his arm.
At the reception desk, I check in and then sink into one of the waiting room chairs, Dario finally relaxing marginally in the seat beside me. Other mothers-to-be wait their turns, most of them alone. A TV mounted on the wall plays an HGTV show about kitchen renovations—the kind of mind-numbing content perfectly designed for waiting rooms.
It’s boring, but at least it’s not silent. Still, it’s not enough to distract me from the anxiety suddenly coiling in my gut.
I’ve read about pregnancy, and I’ve assumed everything is progressing normally. But what if I’m wrong? Am I eating the right foods? Taking the right vitamins? Am I under too much stress?
This baby has already become my world, and the thought of screwing up terrifies me. If only my mom were here to guide me through this. The absence aches like a phantom limb—it’s what’s missing in all of this. I wish my parents were alive to share in my excitement, to dote on their grandchild.
“Paige?” the nurse calls, breaking into my spiral of melancholy.
We follow her down a short hallway, stopping first at a digital scale. After being weighed, we’re led to an exam room, where I’m instructed to strip down and put on a paper gown.
Awkwardness descends like a thick fog as we’re left alone. Dario stares fixedly at a wall poster displaying a detailed diagram of female reproductive anatomy.
“They sure know how to take the mystery out of it, don’t they?” I quip, kicking off my ballet flats and wincing when my bare feet touch the cold tile floor.
Dario moves closer and tugs at my yellow sundress, helping me pull it over my head. We haven’t had sex since that morning he came to my room while I was throwing up, and being exposed to him like this in such a clinical setting makes anxiety skitter through me like electricity.
I turn away as I unhook my bra and slip it off. Dario makes a small, displeased sound in his throat, but doesn’t speak. My panties are next, and I’m still avoiding his gaze as I shimmy out of them.
Dario drapes the gown around my shoulders and steps back, allowing me to guide my arms through and tie it closed. The thing is huge and awkward, rustling like gift wrap as I settle into the chair with the stirrups. Dario helps me up, his large hands firm on my hips. When I’m settled, I expect him to move away, but he lingers in my space. I tilt my head back to find his face inches from mine, his eyes burning with an intensity that makes my heart flutter like hummingbird wings.
“What is it?” I ask, my voice barely above a whisper.
“I don’t like when you hide yourself from me,” he says, his hands squeezing my hips.
It takes a moment to realize he’s talking about when I turned away to undress. I can’t help but smile.
