Page 51 of Surprise Twins for the Mafia Prince
“Hardly. When you say fancy, I assume you mean expensive. A high price tag doesn’t make Italian food good. If you ask my Aunt Antonia, it’s the love you put into the food. And she must be right, because the best Italian food I’ve ever had was prepared by my Aunt in her own kitchen. No restaurant can compare. The woman can make homemade pasta like you wouldn’t believe.”
“What about your mom? Is she Italian?” I ask, curious about his family background beyond the notorious Andretti name.
Dario nods, his expression neutral. “She was a nice Italian girl, so I’m told. She died from cancer when I was too young to even remember her. My brother was just a baby.”
“I’m sorry.” I glance up at his profile, outlined against the neon glow of a nearby storefront.
He shrugs, eyes fixed on the path ahead. “It’s fine. It doesn’t feel like a loss to me. It’s a fact of life, something that has always been true for me. I’ve never had a mom.”
I wonder if his dad was a good father to him. Was he cold and ruthless with his son, like he is with his enemies? Or does Lorenzo love his sons the way that I hope Dario will love our twins when they’re born?
The idea of Lorenzo Andretti as a caring father is unsettling. It doesn’t fit the image I have of him in my mind. I don’t like that.
The sound of squealing tires slices through the night, and I turn my head toward the street. Time grinds to a halt, and my breath catches in my lungs as I stare in wide-eyed horror. There’s a black car speeding toward us with the window rolled down and a gun pointed right at me.
22
DARIO
I knew danger was lurking.I’ve felt it breathing down my neck for days now, like a shadow stalking me through every room. The Bratva hasn’t tried to make a move since those two goons jumped me in the gym parking lot, but I knew it was only a matter of time.
When they didn’t hit the weapons shipment last week, I suspected they had something else planned—something worse. But I didn’t truly think they’d try another personal attack. I already killed two of their men, and the damn Bratva isn’t big enough to spare more bodies. I insisted on precautions for Paige’s safety, but deep down, I hoped they were unnecessary.
Besides, targeting me is fucking stupid. It’s an emotional reaction, equivalent to a toddler throwing a tantrum because someone took his favorite toy. So what if I’m the one who stole the information that tanked their casino project? It’s not personal. It’s mafia business, and targeting our business is the right move.
But Kozlov is a reckless asshole.
I see the gun hanging out of the car window as the vehicle speeds toward us, and my heart plummets down to my feet. The barrel is pointed at Paige. The son of a bitch isn’t just trying to retaliate against me—he’s targeting my woman. Mypregnantwoman.
The twisted bastard wants her killed in front of me.
Over my dead fucking body.
I spin toward Paige, moving to block her with my body even as I grab her arms and bring her to the ground with me. Shots crack through the night air before we’re down, and I feel a searing pain in my arm—the same one that was cut during my last encounter with these Russian fuckers. I grit my teeth and ignore it, dragging Paige to a car parked at the curb so we can use it for cover. I’m blocking as much of her petite body as possible while sickening fear pulses through my veins. Not fear for myself—fear for her. For our babies.
When we’re crouched beside the car, I pull back enough to run my eyes over her. “Are you hit?”
“N-no,” she stammers, voice small. She’s terrified, and that kicks my rage into high gear.
The gunfire rattles on for a few seconds before the car tears past us, accelerating into the night.
Like hell.
I pull the gun from my shoulder holster, pop back onto my feet, and rush out into the street, firing shot after shot at the retreating vehicle. I manage to blow out the back window, but I don’t think I hit anyone because the car doesn’t so much as swerve. It just keeps going, and I want to chase the fuckers down, but I know I’ll never catch them on foot.
“Dario!”
My head turns back to Paige, who is still crouched down, but as I lock eyes with her, my vision starts to turn black at the edges. I blink and shake my head.
What the fuck?
Weakness washes over me like high tide, and my knees buckle. They hit the pavement hard, the force traveling up my spine and making my teeth clack together. I try to refocus on Paige’s concerned face, but it’s getting harder. I feel like I’m getting weaker with each rapid pump of my heart.
Dimly, I recall the pain I felt when the shooting started. I look down at my arm to see thick, dark blood pouring out of it, running between my fingers in rivulets of crimson. “N-not again,” I stutter for the first time in twelve years.
Dizziness takes over, and I suddenly know what’s happening. The bullet must have hit an artery. I’ve seen enough men bleed out to recognize the signs.
“Dario!” My name is called out again, but her voice is closer. I don’t know how I got here, but I’m somehow on the ground now, lying on my back.
