Page 74 of Surprise Twins for the Mafia Prince
“Boys?” he asks in a choked voice, as if someone has reached down his throat and squeezed his vocal cords. “Are you saying that we’re having boys?”
This time, he’s the one who squeezes my hand. Then, he lifts it to his lips and kisses the back of it with a tenderness that makes my throat tight.
“Is that what you hoped for?” I ask.
“I would have been happy either way, but I wanted to know.” His eyes remain fixed on the screen, on that tiny appendage that has revealed our future.
“I’ll admit that I’ve been imagining little boys,” I confess. “They’ll probably be little replicas of you.”
“Think you can handle that?” There’s a spark of his usual cockiness in his voice, but it’s tempered with something softer.
I laugh, trying to imagine two miniature versions of Dario rampaging through our house. “I’m not really sure. But I guess we’ll figure it out.”
The ultrasound tech prints off pictures for us and we leave the doctor’s office together ten minutes later. It’s noon and my stomach growls with the subtlety of a freight train just as Dario drives us out of the parking lot. My cheeks flush hot as he chuckles.
“Don’t laugh at me,” I grumble, poking him in the ribs. “Take me to lunch.”
Something like regret flickers across his face, there and gone so quickly I almost miss it.
“I should’ve told you before, but I have to drop you off at home and hurry to a meeting.”
I want to ask what the meeting is about, but I’ve learned over the last few months of living together that he’s tight-lipped about his mafia business. I’m not sure if that’s a general rule he follows, refusing to discuss his work with anyone outside the organization, or if he’s keeping it from me because I’m already uncomfortable with the whole cosa nostra of it all.
“Can you drop me off at a restaurant instead? Maybe that Indian place near the apartment I’ve been wanting to try?”
Dario’s lips curve up in a smile as his eyes stay focused on the road. “With the heartburn you’ve been having lately? Don’t you think spicy food is going to make it worse?”
I cringe at the reminder that he’s seen some of the not-so-glamorous sides of my pregnancy, including vomiting marathons, acid reflux that could burn through steel, and my new tendency to snore like a chainsaw.
“It might,” I admit. “But I’m craving it.”
Sighing, he pulls out his cell phone when we reach a stoplight. While the light is red, he fires off a text and gets a response almost immediately, like his people are just waiting by their phones for his command. Which, now that I think about it, they probably are.
“Fine,” he concedes. “But you’ll have to deal with Luca watching over you.”
I bite my lip but don’t argue. Dario’s brother has been decent enough, but I’m still not comfortable around any Andretti except the father of my children.
I know it bothers Dario.
I’ve picked up on the fact that he’s close with Luca. They have a tight bond, built on blood and trust and shared secrets. I get the impression that they spent much more time together before I came along with all my anti-Andretti baggage.
We pull up in front of the Indian restaurant fifteen minutes later, but there’s no sign of Luca waiting outside. Dario glances at the clock on the dashboard and frowns. I’m so in tune with him now that he doesn’t have to say anything for me to sense his urgency. He has places to be, people to intimidate, empires to oversee.
We’re near the apartment, and I could have him drop me off there, but that seems ridiculous when we’re already here, and I swear my stomach is cramping from hunger. It doesn’t matter that I had a breakfast big enough to feed a football team this morning. I’m eating for three now, and the larger my boys grow, the more fuel I need to keep this biological factory running.
“I’ll just go in and wait for Luca,” I suggest, reaching for the door handle. Dario’s hand on my shoulder stops me, warm and firm.
“I’ll take you inside and scope the place out first. Luca should be here in a matter of minutes, so I think you’ll be fine.”
His meeting must be important if he’s willing to leave me without a bodyguard, even for a few minutes. Or maybe he’s decided that the Bratva isn’t such a big threat anymore. As terrifying as the shooting was, it’s been a while, and they haven’t made another move.
The restaurant is bustling for a weekday afternoon, and Dario sticks close to me as he leads me to an empty table near the restrooms. It’s not ideal real estate—nobody wants to eat next to the bathroom—but I know he chose it because it’s the furthest from the windows. Less chance of a drive-by, I guess.
He pulls my chair out for me but doesn’t take a seat. Standing by my table, he flicks his sharp gaze over the restaurant like a predator assessing potential threats.
“There’s no danger to you here,” he says, but I can see his hesitance to leave, the way his hand lingers on the back of my chair.
“Go,” I say, picking up my menu. “You said Luca is only minutes away. I’ll be fine.”
